


Requiescat

by cloudlessclimes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, mention of past character death, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudlessclimes/pseuds/cloudlessclimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Liam/Harry present day AU. </p><p>Liam works in an antique bookshop with Nick Grimshaw and sings in the pub  with his friends Aiden, Matt, Niall and Zayn, dreaming of making it big in London and getting out of his grotty Paddington flat. He spends most of his time working, walking his fat Labrador puppy, and lamenting the fact that even though they went on two great dates, the thing he has for Harry Styles didn’t quite work out, yet he can’t quite get over him either.</p><p>Harry has problems of his own, facing down an ancient enemy without trying to hurt anyone, least of all Liam. But now is the time of The Reckoning, where Harry and the last few of his kind battle for The Prize.</p><p>A rainy night  on Hampstead  Heath brings them together unexpectedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Requiescat

**Author's Note:**

> Infinite thanks to my betas, hand holders, and all around A+ people: ohnoscarlett, words_unravel, and kueble. I could not have finished without you.
> 
> All remaining errors are mine. If it's huge and glaring tell me and I'll fix it.
> 
> My amazing mix is by the lovely quietgalaxy so please check it out [here](http://quietgalaxy.livejournal.com/1782.html#cutid1)
> 
> Written for the 1D Big Bang. Huge thanks to the mods for putting it all together.

“Oh, come on then!” Liam sighs in exasperation, halting halfway through tugging on his anorak to glare at the package sitting neatly in the _to be delivered immediately_ cubby. “Surely you’re joking.”

Nick’s hair peeks around the bookshelves first, followed by his grinning face. “Sorry mate, old man Cowell’s put you on deliveries and that’s the only one we've got left. I've just closed up the till,” he pauses to show the keys to the register and lock box, “and I've got to leg it if I’m going to meet my mates on time for the gig tonight.” Nick’s face is a poorly played attempt at sheepish apology.

“Perhaps I’ve plans as well,” Liam mutters under his breath. He sighs but tucks the brown paper wrapped book under his arm.

“What’s that then?” Nick cups a hand up to his ear, giggling at Liam’s petulant glare. “ You've _plans_ have you?”

Liam grabs his rucksack from its peg and sighs, shoulders drooping, “Well, no, but I could do. You don’t know everything about me, Grimshaw.”

“True, love. True.” Nick takes his umbrella from the stand and hooks it over his arm. “You can take the Merc if that will soften the blow of Friday night after-hours deliveries to your social life?” He plucks a set of car keys from the pocket of his velvet blazer and dangles them in front of Liam’s face.

Snagging the keys, Liam mutters, “You don’t fight fair.” Nick knows Liam has only just got his full license. Everyone at _Cowell’s Books & Antiquities_ knows that. Liam never shuts up about it, and it's only fear of Simon Cowell himself that’s prevented him from postering the shop window with copies of his license. Of course he hasn't the money to get a car of his own, yet, so he pounces on any chance to drive. And a chance to drive Nick’s shiny black, brand new Mercedes sports car? _Oh yes please_. “But what’re you to drive, then?”

“Cabbing it, love. Henry, Pixie and I have cocktails to meet and greet.” Nick kisses Liam's cheek and flings the door open, walking out into the rainy night and into a waiting taxi. “You’re a pet!” Nick salutes him as the car speeds away.

Fumbling with the shop key as well as the keys to Nick’s car, Liam yells “Too bloody right I am!” into the night. He punches in the security code, hits the lights, and then stands on the landing trying to make sure the tumblers in the very old brass locks slide home before he trots down the steps towards the car park. 

He finds Nick’s car, and does a little shimmying dance of excitement before he slides into the driver’s side, throwing his bag onto the seat beside him. He puts the keys in the ignition and listens to the engine purr while he snags up the package, trying to read the address and see how far across the city he has to drive because Aiden and Matt couldn't keep their hands out of each other’s jeans long enough to process the special order and have it ready to go during normal business hours. 

Squinting in the gloom, Liam stares at the order slip and then groans, “Of course. Bloody hell.” He palms his face, but, peeking through his splayed fingers doesn't change the name of the customer printed in neat black type: _Harry Styles_.

Of course it has to be Harry Styles. Who else would it be? Mr. Cowell had bent over backwards for this particularly loyal customer more times than Liam ever knew anyone was willing to, never mind his usually prickly and unyielding boss. Nick, Aiden, and Matt were probably tucked up somewhere snug and dry, pints in hand of a Friday, laughing their arses off at Liam’s expense. 

Because; Liam has endured a particularly painful and obvious from space yearlong crush on Harry Styles. 

He’d spent hours at the pub with his mates Zayn and Niall as they got progressively more pissed while he regaled them with the latest news on the young, wealthy, and well fit Harry. It had reached the point that if Zayn heard anyone so much as mention anyone named Harry he would pitch himself forward and quietly bash his head off the nearest hard surface-- usually the table in their booth. And Niall would affect a tight smile and laugh nervously if he happened across anyone with green eyes and curly hair.

But, Liam had manned up and done something about his crush. He’d taken Harry’s order slip for yet another fifteenth century alchemy volume and smiled his best and brightest Liam smile—the one that crinkled his eyes and made his cheeks hurt—and had asked Harry out for a coffee. And Harry had said yes.

And they’d gone for that coffee. Harry had been every bit as lovely and charming and interesting as Liam had imagined, more frequently than he’d ever admit to anyone, to be honest. Harry had seemed to find Liam amusing at the very least, and their coffee date had led to a pub date where they’d watched Aiden and Matt do their socially awkward folk duo thing, and that had led to…nothing.

No magical third date. 

Harry hadn't called. He didn't text. There was no email. Every time the old brass bells over the door of the shop alerted Liam to someone entering, he’d looked up- too much hope in his eyes-only to be disappointed when Harry failed to show. 

But the orders still came; to Simon Cowell’s personal email, which he forwarded to the Special Editions and Orders Department—the desk Aiden and Matt shared in the basement—and they’d go out for delivery. Nick usually brought them round as he cheerfully waved and said Harry’s address was _on the way_ to where ever it was he was going.

At no point in either of their two dates had Harry ever mentioned where he lived, and they’d met at the book shop both times. So, Liam has no idea where Harry lives. His mouth shifts from a frown to a hard line as he stares at the address and tries to figure out the best route from Notting Hill to the outside of Hampstead. It’s only as Liam’s setting out from the parking spot that it occurs to him that Nick’s ridiculously expensive sports car would come with SatNav, so with very little fiddling around with that, and the lights, and the radio, Liam is on his way to Hampstead.

The rain is teeming down and the Friday night traffic is terrible, so of course what is supposed to be fifteen minutes’ drive takes more than double that. Liam is squinting through the rain, trying to see if the house numbers match with what the SatNav is telling him. 

Ever since that Segway bloke had tipped himself over a cliff, Liam has been wary of relying solely on technology to get around in the world. 

A crack of thunder is followed closely by a strike of lightening that illuminates the lush green of the heath, and for a moment Liam is struck dumb by what the brightness in the sky reveals. 

Two men are fighting each other, with swords. Liam knows his way around an epee a bit thanks to a rather diverse physical education course at college, but these swords are nothing like that. They’re broad and lethal looking. Liam can imagine the sounds of steel against steel as they clang together, sparks flying into the dark of the stormy night. “What the devil?” Liam mutters, rubber necking just as another rumble of thunder makes him jump. He watches in mute horror as one of the men raises his sword in a wide arch, bringing it cleanly to the neck of the other man-and lightning whites out the sky.

A sickly thump has Liam hitting the breaks, but not before seeing the shape of a person in the headlights. The person rolls across the bonnet of the car, smashing the windscreen and rolling to the street just as Liam finally manages to set the hand brake. Liam flings open the door and rounds the car, swallowing back bile and fear. “Oh jesus. Oh jesus.” He mutters to himself over and over again, trainers slipping in the puddles. The person is laid out, unmoving, a dark, sodden heap at the side of the road. Liam rolls him over and gasps. “Harry! Oh, Christ! Harry!” 

The man lying in the road is Harry Styles. 

The rainwater washes blood from Harry’s skin in dark whorls. Dropping to his knees, Liam feels for a pulse, a heartbeat, a breath. Nothing. There’s nothing. Panic slamming his own heart repeatedly into his ribs, Liam pats his jacket pocket, and then the pockets in his jeans, frantic to find his phone. He stands, briefly contemplating going to get it from his bag, then remembers he’s left it by the delivery cubbies back at the store. “Shit.” 

The autumn rain is pelting down now, plastering Liam’s hair to his head and soaking through his jeans. Wild eyed, he looks around, desperate for help. But there’s no one. Liam pants and, swallows hard, thinks of the men fighting on the Heath, and then thinks that’s not exactly the sort of help he needs right now.

Panic and fear freeze Liam to the spot, but it’s a wet gasping groan that brings him out of it. He springs to his feet in surprise as he watches Harry sit up slowly--his green eyes wide and clouded with pain. “Liam?” his voice is a watery gurgle and Liam watches in horrified fascination as Harry coughs up dark globs thick with blood. “Take me home.”

“You need to go to hospital!” Liam leans back down and puts a shoulder under Harry’s arm as he struggles to his feet.

Harry slowly shakes his shaggy head back and forth, swaying as he tries to stand. “No. No hospital.” He manages to slur as his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps against Liam.

“Damn it,” Liam curses under his breath, tightening his grip around Harry’s waist, the buckle of Harry’s trenchcoat belt trailing noisily along the street behind them. As Liam is doing his best to balance a groggy Harry and open the car door, he trips over something lying in the road and almost sends the both of them flying. 

“Oh,” Liam’s mouth is a surprised _O_ as he sees a large sword slide across the black top from where he’s kicked it. Blinking, he bends down to pick it up, shocked by its weight. He once more narrowly avoids landing on his arse in the middle of the road.

“S’mine,” Harry’s voice is a whisper behind Liam, but he awkwardly bends over and scoops up the lethal looking weapon with little more than the tips of his outstretched fingers. That seems to be the extent of whatever energy Harry’s summoned because he once more slumps against Liam. Wary of the long sword, Liam hauls Harry up in his arms, depositing him as carefully as possible across the back seat of Nick’s sports car. “No hospital,” Harry murmurs again as Liam gingerly takes the sword from his curled fist to lay it flat on the floor.

“Right, fine. I’ll take you home, then shall I?” Liam grouses as he sits behind the wheel and turns over the ignition. He’s shivering from cold and fear and adrenaline, and his teeth are chattering so loudly his head aches. But at least the damage done to the car appears to be cosmetic, because the engine starts without pause or problem.

“Not my home--yours. S’safer, for now.” Harry’s voice is low but easy enough to hear, even muffled as it is by the car's seats.

Liam raises an eyebrow at the rear view mirror and mutters, “Safer than what? For someone who was pretty well dead a few minutes ago you’re quite bossy, you know that?” as he pulls away from the curb and heads back towards his flat in Paddington. 

To Liam’s amazement, through the haze of what must be rather a lot of pain, Harry laughs wetly and says, “Yeah, always have been. Styles gets what he wants. ”

They ride back to Liam’s flat in silence, but there’s nothing companionable or comfortable about it. Liam finds himself flicking his gaze to the rear view mirror every few minutes to make sure Harry’s chest is still rising and falling in the even and steady act of breathing. 

A million questions are swimming their way up through the cloud of fear that had so far guided Liam’s actions, and he is so curious he barely manages to bite back all of the words that want to spill out of his mouth.

But, Harry is hurt. Harry needs rest; he doesn’t need Liam rabbiting on about the events that lead them here. _Who are you kidding, Payne? Harry was bloody well good and dead there, and needs a doctor at the very least._

By the time the reach the grubby little complex by the tube station that Liam’s called home since he came to London two years ago, Harry is sitting up in the back seat, swiping at the sticky mess of drying blood on his face with the back of his hand and the cuff of his trenchcoat. “Thank you,” he says solemnly, placing a hand on Liam’s shoulder, briefly squeezing it as Liam fits the car into a spot down the block from his building.

“You’re welcome?” Liam can’t shake the wary confusion gripping low in his belly. 

Harry makes small, pained noises in the back of his throat as Liam helps him to his feet, and he only hesitates a moment before retrieving his sword with a groan. With an easy flick of his wrist, the brutal thing arcs through the air, the gems in the brass hilt glinting in the street lights as Harry catches it by the pommel and somehow secures it beneath his loosely hanging coat. He smiles and gratefully grips the arm Liam is offering out for support. 

Liam keeps shooting glances he is quite sure Harry is purposely avoiding, but he doesn't ask him any questions. He can’t begin to figure out what to ask, yet. They trudge down the stairs to Liam’s basement flat, and Harry leans against the wall while Liam struggles with the fussy lock. 

There’s a fine sheen of perspiration over Harry’s entire face and his voice is barely more than a whisper when he says, “I think I need to have a bit of a lie down.”

“Ya think so, do you?” Liam snorts out a laugh and then he’s holding his hands out to Brit, trying to shush the yellow lab’s happy barks at his return. 

Even through the pain he must be in, Harry’s smile widens at the sight of the dog and he slowly crouches down to pet her. “I’d forgotten you told me you've got a dog,” he says, laughing softly when Liam makes a noise of disgust at Brit’s licking at the blood covering Harry’s hands and face. 

”Oi! Get off!” he pushes her away with his foot and then looks at Harry. Really _looks_ at him. His skin is grey, and his curly hair is matted to his head, and his eyes are little more than slits in his pale face. “C’mon, sit down, you.” He motions for Harry to sit down on the small sofa and then continues across the lounge room to let Brit out into the garden through a door in the tiny galley kitchen. 

When he comes back, carrying the washing up bowl filled with warm water in both hands, kitchen roll under one arm and a first aid kit under the other, he finds Harry stretched out, flat on his back and sound asleep. Liam sets the bowl and kitchen roll on the coffee table and drops to his knees. With gentle slowness, Liam peels back Harry’s raincoat and starts a little when, lightning fast, Harry’s hand grips Liam’s wrist just as he’s about to unsheathe the sword. “Shh, shh. It’s just me, Liam. Just trying to make you more comfortable.”

“No, s’mine—stays.” Harry’s voice is groggy and thick with pain. 

Liam shushes under his breath, and as gently as he can puts his palms to Harry’s shoulders, settling him back against the ghastly floral sofa cushions. ”All right. All right. You’re all right, now. You rest, and I’ll clean you up a little, okay?” Harry grumbles but doesn't resist as Liam wrestles him out of his trench coat and smooths the matted curls off his face. 

He sets to work, quietly and competently soaking the kitchen towels in warm water from the basin, wringing them out, and then swiping the blood from Harry’s hands, arms, neck and face, feeling for injuries as he does so. Curiously, he finds none. With light fingers he traces through Harry’s messy hair, feeling for lumps or cuts. 

Biting his lip, he watches the slow up and down of Harry’s chest, then carefully inches up his t-shirt to check his torso, which Liam is sure took the brunt of the impact against the bumper and bonnet of the Mercedes.

Harry flinches in his sleep, but his hand remains curled in muscle memory around the jewel studded hilt of the sword at his side. Liam backs away slowly, hands raised defensively. He’s heaving out startled breaths when his attention is caught by the bruising and redness across Harry’s chest. It fades to bottle green and yellow and then it's gone, before his eyes. 

It’s only Brit’s barking and the splatting of the bloody water on the hardwood from the way he’s twisting the sodden towel in his hands that snaps Liam out of his staring. He tosses the soaked paper into the bowl; the water now a sickly pink. Harry shifts and moans on the sofa, and Liam holds his breath, waiting for him to wake. 

Harry just mumbles into the sofa back, so Liam gathers up everything he’d brought from the kitchen and sets it on the work top on his way to the back door. He thinks he'll let the dog in and then go change out of his sodden clothes. Groggy from the come down of shock and adrenaline, Liam is a little late to catch Brit’s collar as she bolts through the door and into the lounge room, making a bee line for the sofa, and Harry. Liam gets to the sofa just in time to watch Brit lick Harry’s face, and for him to laugh softly, hugging her wriggling puppy body close to him, and then sink back into sleep. Liam flops down into an overstuffed chair, drawing his knees up to his chin. 

\+ + + +

The knocking on his front door, and Brit’s low _woof_ wake Liam. He’d fallen asleep in the chair, and now his neck and back are paying the price, and his right arm and left leg are numb and full of pins and needles. His clothes are stiff an uncomfortable, having never changed out of his rain soaked things the night before. “Harry?” he calls in sleepy confusion. The sofa is empty, blanket folded neatly over the back, and the pillows arranged in a tidy row.

“No hon, it’s Danielle?” Comes the muffled call through the door.

Getting awkwardly to his feet, Liam stumbles the few steps to the front door, trailed by Brit. He frowns where he realises that Harry is nowhere to be found, but manages to muster at least a very small smile when he opens the door. “Morning,” he says.

“Morning Liam, all right?” Danielle, Liam’s upstairs neighbour and the first person he’d dated when he’d moved to London, also looks after Brit when he’s at work. “Morning beautiful girl,” flipping her long curly hair behind her shoulder, Danielle leans down to enthusiastically pet Brit, who has rolled over onto her back, all four feet in the air.

“Oh say, Danielle, I’ve had a bit of a... you know, a _thing_ come up and was wondering, would you mind terribly taking Brit til say, Monday?” Liam gives her his best, most earnest face, which is not unlike the expression on his dog’s face as they both look hopefully at Danielle.

Standing and taking the dog leash from its spot on the peg by the front door, Danielle giggles and says, “Oh of course! I don’t mind at all, Li. She’s great. Ever such a good girl, aren’t you?” She snaps her fingers and Brit comes to sit obediently at her feet, allowing Danielle to fasten the lead to her collar. “You go take care of your… _thing_ “ she smiles and makes a shooing motion at Liam. “I’ve enough kibble and treats to get us through and we’ll have a grand time, won’t we, love?” Danielle happily chucks Brit under the chin and turns to trot back through the still open front door and up the stairs. 

“Thanks, yeah?” Liam calls after her and smiles when she waves behind her.

With the dog taken care of, Liam wanders the flat, looking for any sign of Harry. He finds it in the kitchen. Stuck under a Kermit the Frog water glass, there’s a note scribbled on the back of a utility bill envelope. _\- can’t thank you enough for all of your help. I hope this is enough to cover your car repair.. –HS xx_ Liam blinks at the black scrawl; owlish and stupid for long seconds before he reaches inside the envelope and finds a cheque there. Filled out in the same neat, school marm-ish handwriting is a truly obscene number. Maybe Nick won’t kill him for wrecking his car after all. 

Nick. Work. _Damn_. 

Liam casts a quick glance at the time on the microwave, and realizing he’s still plenty early enough to fake a sickie, he sets off in search of the house phone. It’s on the bedside table, so Liam snatches it up and leaves a fumbling message, “Oi, it’s Liam here. Had a bit of a run in with…with a dog last night. In Nick’s car, I mean. I mean I hit a dog with the car on my way home. When I was driving,” he winces. 

Liam’s inability to tell a convincing lie is legend amongst his friends. “I’m mostly all right, a little sore maybe, so I suppose what I’m meant to be saying is I won’t be in today, but Nick will cover my shift. And uh, Nick sorry ‘bout the Merc, mate. I’ll get it fixed up and back to you in a tick.” Liam winces again and is immediately grateful he’d forgotten his mobile at the shop. He really doesn't need Nick, of all people, squawking at him about irresponsibility right now. 

He can’t stop thinking about Harry, and what happened last night, and how none of it makes any sense at all. Maybe he doesn't quite deserve answers, but he’s in it now, and Liam decides he’s going to ask the questions. He quickly brushes his teeth and runs cool water over his face. Smoothing down his rumpled work shirt, Liam grabs a hoodie and heads out of his flat and over to where he’d parked Nick’s car the night before.

While the car still drives relatively well, there’s no way he can take it back out on the road without attracting attention. There is an obvious, person sized dent in both the bumper and the bonnet and the wind screen on the passenger side is shattered; the wiper hanging comically broken and flailing out into the grey morning, like a limb beckoning. 

Giving a long sigh, Liam pauses to think, hands on his hips. He nods to no one , reaching a decision. Quickly opening the passenger side door, Liam catches the strap of his messenger bag between his fingers and yanks it from the car. Briefly checking to make sure that Harry’s book and delivery slip are still inside, he slips the bag over his head and trots to the alley behind his building. 

On a normal day he’d either take the tube or ride his ten speed across the city, but last night was not a normal night and today is not a normal morning, so he sighs and straddles the seat of the somewhat aged, very pink Vespa scooter his sister, Nicola, had lent him until he could afford payments on a car. Flinging his bag around his shoulders and slapping an equally pink helmet down onto his frizzy hair, Liam sets out back towards the Heath, and Harry.

As he approaches the address he’s memorized, something in Liam’s guts makes him slow to a stop behind a parked car. Tilting his head around the vehicle, Liam can make out Harry in the distance, chucking a duffle bag into a black Range Rover and getting into the driver’s seat. 

Liam could very well tuck the book into Harry’s post box. 

He could, but he’s not going to. 

He’s not entirely certain why, but Liam hangs back before turning the ignition over and setting out to follow Harry, putting a few car lengths between them. He’s fairly certain there’s no way to remain inconspicuous on a pink scooter in gridlocked London traffic, but Liam tries his best to remain out of Harry’s rear views.

Harry takes a circuitous route through the city centre, before parking haphazardly outside the concrete and metallic sprawl of an abandoned warehouse in West London. Parking his scooter behind a skip, Liam waits a few beats before following after where Harry has disappeared into the building. 

There’s a convenient pile of discarded shipping pallets for Liam to hide behind, peering through the slats to keep a careful eye on Harry’s determined progress across the dirty warehouse floor, the pounding of his heart loud in his ears.

“Edward?” Harry’s deep voice echoes across the emptiness.

Pigeons perched in the rafters take flight when a small ginger haired man drops to the ground a few feet from Harry, smiling as he lands in a cat crouch. “Ah, Young Harold. Is it true what I’ve heard about the sudden demise of our good friend, Savan?”

Harry steps forward, grasping this Edward’s forearm in greeting and then, shoulder’s drooping, says, “Yes. He’s…gone. I was on my way to see if I could help when I was detained by a …sudden change in my plans. A complication, if you will.” Liam’s eyes widen at that. Were they talking about the men in Hampstead Heath? What did Harry have to do with them? “And Perrie?”

The ginger haired man gives a short curt nod, “Yeah. Got her out by Canary Wharf, didn't they? Bastard has minions to do his bidding now. Not even the courtesy to do his own dirty work.” Harry stiffens and he leans in close to Edward, saying something Liam can’t hear. “Yeah, got humans who think he’s, like, gonna make them same as us or some bullocks.” The anger in Edward’s voice travels across the vast space of the warehouse interior. 

“He is _not_ like us!” Harry’s voice is sharp with his own anger. He straightens up to his full height, tilting his head to gaze at the grey sky through the holes in the roof. “So, then. It’s just you and I?”

“And him.” Edward nods in confirmation.

They start to move in some sort of odd territorial dance, circling one another. “Why did you call me here, Ed? Could you not have just come to mine if you needed to tell me about Perrie, or confirm the news about Savan?”

Ed pauses in his cautious circling and says, in a low, sorrowful voice, “I have grown so very weary of this world.” Without altering his pace at all, he reaches around his shoulder, withdrawing the gently curved blade of a katana from its scabbard and along the back of his navy blue hoodie.

Liam can’t see Harry’s face, but he watches as Harry puts his arms up, palms out to calm Ed. “I heard of your Moira’s passing. I am so terribly sorry for your loss. I would have come to the funeral but that would have been…”

“Complicated?” Ed sighs, gripping his sword lightly in his curled fist. “And you do avoid complications, don’t you Harry?” He laughs but it’s a bitter, hollow, sound. “Tell me, do you know what it’s like to watch the one you love most in this world slip from you because of nothing more than the passing of years?” Ed swallows heavily and then tilts the sword towards Harry. “Do you know what it’s like to have to endure the end of her days and be helpless to change it or stop it, or even take away her pain? To go from being her husband, to her son, to her grandson, to her nephew, to an acquaintance just so you can stay with her for a little while longer, a few more years.” He thwacks Harry on the arm of his trenchcoat with the flat side of his blade.

Harry yelps and jumps sharply to one side, booted foot splashing in a greasy puddle. “No. You know that. You know I vowed long ago to avoid…”

“Complication,” Ed nods and raises his sword before making an awkward lunge toward Harry. “It is more than I can bear.” He continues to advance on Harry, who makes a high noise of distress before easily flicking his own sword out from under his raincoat, meeting Ed’s advance with the sharp clang of steel, effortlessly blocking the attack.

“Ed, brother, please.” Harry’s voice is wild and a little desperate as he backs across the warehouse, defending himself and blocking each of Ed’s thrusts and swings. “Don’t do this thing. Don’t make _me_ do this. You are as dear to me as family. Let us fight him, together.”

Ed’s response is to yell, loud and wild, and echoing off the cinder block walls as he charges at Harry, his sword slashing through the air. Harry raises his own sword, the jeweled hilt gleaming in the weak sunlight. His blade catches Ed’s low by the pommel and sends it spinning from Ed’s hand. They watch in shocked, tandem silence as it arcs across the warehouse and lands with a clang too far out of Ed’s reach. 

Harry stands very, very still, sword still raised high; frozen. “No!” Harry shouts, backing away.

Raising his arms wide in supplication, Ed lifts his head to look directly at Harry. “Please,” he says and his voice is low, and clogged with an emotion that makes Liam feel he is not meant to be seeing this. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the rough wood of his secret perch. When Liam opens his eyes again, Ed has dropped to his knees in front of Harry, arms still wide, head bowed, the pale skin of his neck vulnerable and exposed. “Please!”

“I can’t. I can’t.” Harry is shaking his head wildly back and forth, and his voice is loud and slurred with distress.

When he speaks, Ed’s voice is calm and sure. “I am so very tired. In the end I was nothing more than a name on paper, responsible to see my love laid in the cold ground.” Ed tips over, spreading his palms on the dirty warehouse floor. “Please, brother; send me home.”

The silence stretches on for long moments. Liam is frozen, his heart pounding and breathing much too loud to his own ears. He can see the curve of Ed’s spine and the defeated slump of Harry’s shoulders beneath his charcoal trenchcoat. He watches the rise and fall and rise and fall of them in the heavy stutter of Harry’s laboured breathing. 

Finally, Harry takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. He raises his sword high into the air, and mutters something that to Liam sounds like “Rest now,” before he swings the blade. Harry yells- a guttural and primal wordless noise-, once more scaring the roosting pigeons from their perches.

Liam gasps and squeezes his eyes tight shut , not wanting to see the lethally sharp blade strike home against Ed’s bared neck.

He only opens his eyes again at the sound of glass smashing and the smell of ozone. Shock seeps through him at the sight of Harry twitching and convulsing as strike after strike of an unnaturally blue lightening works its way from the metal rafters of the building through the tips of Harry’s outstretched fingers.

As the electricity courses through the building, the widows and long dormant fluorescent lighting pops and smashes, and Harry twitches and jerks like a marionette. After what seems like an eternity, the sudden electrical storm vanishes just as quickly as it had arisen, and Harry collapses on his knees to the ground, panting. 

“You can come out now,” Harry yells, disturbing the restored silence. Liam jerks when he realises Harry is addressing him, but remains immobile. “Liam? I know you’re there. You can come out now.” 

He doesn't move from his pained crouch, doesn't look up at all. Liam bites his lip and manages to unclench his hands from where they’re gripped tight around the shipping pallets. He slowly stands and rounds the stack, doing a shuffling trot across the warehouse to Harry. He makes a horrified sound and feels the bile rising in this throat when he realises what exactly the grey ash floating on the growing breeze is, and he comes to a stop in front of Harry. “How? Why?” he manages to pant out between gasping breaths. 

Harry gets slowly to his feet, sword still in his grasp, blood drying in sticky black streaks along its blade. He draws himself up to his full height and looks Liam directly in the eyes. Liam cannot even begin to guess what the expression on Harry’s face is meant to convey, but he doesn't flinch or look away. “What...what are you?” Liam finally manages to whisper.

Harry’s eyes shine with unshed tears, and his throat works, convulsively trying to force words to form. “A monster,” his rasp fades into a choked sob, and he surges forward, wrapping Liam in a fierce hug as the sword clangs to the ground.

Liam holds Harry while he shakes and without even thinking presses a reassuring kiss to his temple. “C’mon babe,” he says softly, tracing circles low on Harry’s back. 

He feels his own pulse thready and loud in his ears, so Liam stands there for a beat more, until Harry stands up straight again, only bending to pick his sword up from the concrete and secure it under his coat. Liam’s arm slips to Harry’s waist, fingers pressed to his hip, and they walk in silence across the warehouse to the exit. Liam stops to pick up Ed’s sword and hands it to Harry, raising a questioning eyebrow in concern. Harry just blows out a breath and nods, hand gripping the hilt and bearing the gently curved Japanese weapon to this chest.

The sky is still grey and heavy with threatening rain, and Liam looks around, trying to get his bearings. He squints at the metal ribs of some under-construction sky scraper, clawing at the low hanging clouds, and frowns at the boarded up facades of a dozen other warehouses that look exactly like the one they’ve just been inside. “How did you know I’d followed you?”

“Heard your heartbeat,” Harry mumbles at the ground and doesn’t elaborate. Liam snorts and, with a guiding hand to Harry’s elbow, leads them back to where Harry’s parked.

When they get to Harry’s car he makes no move to get in, just stands stock still, mute and glassy eyed, hugging Ed’s sword. Liam squeezes at his hip and murmurs soothing nonsense under his breath as he bundles Harry into the passenger seat and buckling him in, only meeting with any kind of resistance when he tries to take Ed’s sword from Harry, who grips it tightly and makes a growling noise low in his throat. 

“I’ll just leave it here, all right?” He slowly lowers it into the space between the door and seat and Harry still doesn't speak. “Keys?” Is all Liam says, nodding when Harry reaches into his pocket and hands them over without even looking at him. Liam’ll come back and get his scooter, it can wait. 

\+ + + +

Once they’re in the car, Liam heads towards Harry’s, turning the radio on to fill up the silence. Harry still hasn't said a word. He just keeps blowing out breath, his cheeks puffing out wildly with the effort. Liam’s not sure if he’s going to cry or chunder. He’s blinking fast and repeatedly rubbing his hand over top of his head by the time they manage to crawl, slow as treacle, across the city and through the dregs of morning traffic. 

Harry opens the car door, tripping over Ed’s sword, and stopping briefly to pick it up. He stalks down the walk, not looking back. Liam isn’t even sure Harry notices him at his heels. Harry is quite clearly in shock, and Liam isn’t sure he’s not in a similar state himself. If he had questions about the night before they’ve been lost in the events of the morning. 

However, Liam still wants answers and he knows he can’t leave Harry by himself. So, he follows Harry into the house, boggling a little. Liam supposes he’s always known Harry is wealthy; the books he orders are extremely rare and are priced accordingly. Harry orders a _lot_ of books. 

But Harry’s house is not like any house Liam has ever been in before. It’s all dark wood and polished glass and tasteful, _expensive_ art on the walls and on tables tucked into well-lit recesses. Mixed in with the art is a collection of various medieval weapons; beautiful and dangerous, even behind glass. 

Harry takes off his coat and flings it onto an embroidered prie dieu. Then he removes his long sword, running a soft flannel along the blade deftly removing the gore, and, with a kiss to the gem encrusted hilt, secures it in a sconce at the wall, pocketing the rag. As an afterthought, he reverently sets Ed’s sword into an empty bracket on the same wall, staring at it for the briefest of seconds before he continues to stalk down the long, wide hall.

The kitchen is at the back of the house and is no different from the rest of it--gleaming sleek and polished. Everything is neat and tidy and in its spot, and Liam can’t help but think that there is a distinct lack of _home_ anywhere in the place. 

Harry finally stops at the work top, flicking the kettle on and turning to lean his back into the counter, staring at Liam. His green eyes are wide and he blinks slowly, long lashes dark against the paleness of his cheeks. Somewhere in the house a clock bongs the time and it’s just gone ten. It’s only been two hours since Liam woke up uncomfortably contorted in his chair from the long night before. 

But, it seems like that happened years ago, to someone else. Liam swallows and meets Harry’s gaze, waiting.

The kettle clicks off, and they both turn to stare at it. Harry busies himself putting teabags into mugs and getting down the sugar, and the milk out of the full sized refrigerator. He reaches into a cupboard and takes out a dark green bottle, sloshing a dollop of the contents into each mug before turning around and thrusting a mug at Liam. 

“Thanks,” Liam accepts the tea, both of his hands covering Harry’s where they’re shaking, droplets of the rust colored liquid dripping down the sides of the heavy china mug.

Liam’s eyes go wide and round and he coughs and sputters on his first sip. “What the devil did you put in this?” He gasps around his coughing.

Harry laughs and, taking a fortifying gulp from his own cup, says, “Whiskey.” He blows over the steaming surface and raises an eyebrow at Liam, his curls falling over his forehead.

“Am I allowed to ask you what the bloody pinging hell is going on?” Liam reaches around Harry to set his mug on the counter, scowling as he speaks.

Harry continues to take slow sips from his mug; long elegant fingers woven together to cradle the warmth of the tea into the palms of his hands. He blinks and breathes with exaggerated care, tilting his head to the side and giving a slight nod, “Yeah, yeah. You are. You’re allowed.”

Eyebrows furrowed in a scowl Liam says shortly, “Then consider this me asking, then. Harry, what are you playing at?” His mouth is set in a hard, unamused line. 

Setting his tea on the work top beside Liam’s, Harry bites his lip, licking across the dents his teeth have made. He studies Liam for a long time, the expression in his eyes so intense yet unreadable that Liam actually feels himself start to squirm under the weight of it. 

He finally says, “I was born in the year the Romans called Forty Three Anno Domini. I am the last of the Eceni people. Yet a handful like me remain. Now is the time of The Reckoning. I am immortal. I cannot die.” Without giving Liam the time or opportunity to process his speech, Harry reaches into the butcher block beside the sink, extracting a carving knife, swiftly raising it into the air in front of him, and driving it into his belly with both hands. “I’m not playing at anything, Liam,” he hacks out.

“What’re you doing?” Liam yells in shocked horror, dropping to his knees beside Harry, who has fallen to the tiled floor; curled in on himself and moaning. Liam kicks the knife away and paws at Harry’s thick Aran jumper, the cream coloured wool quickly staining crimson. He manages to ruck up the fabric and his fingers slip through the slick ooze of blood across Harry’s belly as Harry continues to writhe and groan. “Jesus,” Liam grabs a tea towel from the oven handle then drops back to Harry’s side, wiping at the blood to assess the injury. 

He gasps and freezes, and if he hadn’t seen what he’d seen last night and then this morning, he would swear what he’s seeing now couldn’t actually be happening. Like a film run at high speed in reverse, the jagged wound just to the left of Harry’s navel stops bleeding, seals, scabs, turns a light pink, and then is gone. The only proof it had ever been there to begin with is the sticky-slick coating of bright red blood on Liam’s hands and wrists, the floor, and the darkening stains on Harry’s jumper. 

Panicked, Liam trails his hands frantically over Harry’s waist and abdomen, searching for injuries. He pauses and stares at Harry before scowling and angrily taking his hands back. “You’re barking fucking mad!”

What Liam had thought were groans of pain are in fact peals of laughter. Harry is sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, jumper rucked up under his armpits, blood drying on his belly and chinos, with his arms clutched across his chest, head back, and laughing so hard he’s crying. “God damn it!” Liam shouts, and reaches down to haul Harry to him by his filthy jumper. Eager to silence Harry’s near hysterical donkey braying, Liam uses his free hand to grab Harry’s jaw and mashes their mouth together in a hard, desperate kiss.

Liam expects Harry to push him away, or explain himself or, something. 

He doesn’t expect Harry’s laughter to die in an audible swallow as he fists his hands in Liam’s shirt, lugging him closer. He returns the kiss, biting at Liam’s bottom lip, then laving his tongue across it to soothe the sting before sliding into Liam’s mouth, licking across his tongue when Liam gives a surprised gasp. Liam pushes his thumb into the hinge of Harry’s jaw and drags him closer still, until they’re tangled around each other, crouching on their knees on the kitchen floor.

Harry’s breath stutters when Liam drags his mouth away to lick and suck at the straining tendon in his neck. They grab and paw at each other and Liam snags a handful of Harry’s curly hair in his fist, yanking until Harry leans backward, baring his throat. “Jesus,” Liam mutters against the paleness of Harry’s neck. He scrapes his teeth over a tiny mole, sucking hard enough to leave an angry red mark, then running his teeth over the spot again, making Harry moan and arch his hips into Liam’s as the mark disappears before Liam’s eyes.

“Up,” Harry says simply, peppering small kisses across Liam’s cheek and chin. They get unsteadily to their feet in a jumble of limbs, unwilling to stop touching each other. Liam trails his fingers over Harry’s long body, pushing the heavy wool jumper upwards. 

Without further prompting Harry raises his hands over his head and lets Liam continue to remove his top until it drags over his fingertips, and Liam carelessly drops it to the floor. Liam and Harry make similar noises of arousal as Liam traces his path in reverse, teasing his fingernails across the sharp cut of muscle along Harry’s pecs and rib cage. He wreaths Harry’s narrow waist with his hands, once more roughly smashing their mouths together. 

They kiss in a desperate clash of teeth and lips and tongues, until Harry drags his mouth away, eyes wide. “Upstairs,” he pants. 

He takes Liam by the wrist and drags him through the kitchen, into the hallway and up the sprawl of the main staircase with long, purposeful strides. Still dazed from the things he’s seen and the drugged out feeling of Harry’s mouth on his, Liam trots along like a compliant puppy. Halfway up the staircase, Harry makes a low, growling sound in the back of his throat that goes straight to the pit of Liam’s stomach. He gives Liam’s hand a rough yank and presses him into the brocade covered wall with a dull thud. “Can’t stop,” Harry mutters in confused wonder, and Liam’s not sure he’s talking to him, or himself. 

He doesn’t have time to figure it out; Harry’s mouth is on him again, sucking at his bottom lip as his fingers fumble with the tiny buttons on Liam’s shirt. He’s clumsy and over eager and by the time he reaches the third button he curses in frustration. 

Taking both halves of Liam’s shirt in his grasp, Harry heaves until the buttons pop and bounce down the wooden stairs. He shoves the remnants of the material aside and follows the defined curve of Liam’s ribs with the pads of his fingers. “Mmm, better,” he mutters with a nod of his head before he licks back into Liam’s mouth.

Gasping for breath, Liam tips his head back against the wall, “I liked this shirt,” he gulps down air and the corners of his mouth turn down in a little frown. 

“You’ll like this more,” Harry says with a knowing smirk, then he grabs Liam’s wrist again and yanks him the rest of the way up the stairs. 

Harry’s bedroom is the size of Liam’s flat. Instead of industrial cream and metal, it’s decorated in soft shades of green and dark, heavy wooden furniture, so that even with the curtains open and the watery mid-morning sunshine spilling through a wall of windows, it’s dark and quiet.

Peaceful is the only word Liam can think of that fits. 

The tasteful art and medieval weapons found everywhere else in the house are on the walls here too, hanging above the dark furniture and the biggest bed Liam has ever seen; he’s quite sure that his bedroom and then some would take up less space. Harry smiles at him, and Liam is pulled out of his wondering at his surroundings and sees only Harry.

His smile is so soft and genuine, and his expression is so full of something that Liam can honestly say he’s never seen in someone’s eyes before. Weaving his fingers through Liam’s, Harry stretches out their arms in some tense parody of a dance, moving them back towards the bed until Liam is lying flat on his back. 

Harry wastes no time, crawling on top of Liam and pinning him in place with knees bracketing hips and his thumbs tracing the pulse in both of Liam’s wrists as Harry raises their joined hands over Liam’s head, pressing into the soft duvet. “All right?” Harry husks, scraping his teeth along the fragile shell of Liam’s ear and making him hiss. 

“Mmm,” Liam answers absently. He turns his head enough to find the corner of Harry’s mouth, pressing a gasping kiss there to distract Harry from his single minded attention to the only ticklish place on Liam’s body. 

Dragging his lips away from Liam’s and across his cheek, Harry nips at the rise of Liam’s shoulder and traces his tongue along the defined muscles of his arm to his wrist, and then back again. His eyes are closed and the corners of his mouth tilt up in a smile, and Harry looks so much like a self-satisfied cat as he rubs his cheek across Liam’s chest that Liam laughs a little, expecting Harry to purr. Harry opens his eyes and raises his eyebrow in a question and sits up and bites his lip. “Yeah?” he asks, skimming the edge of his thumb over the fastener of Liam’s jeans.

Underwater slow and rubbing at the tingling in his fingertips, Liam nods and says “Yeah,” in a lust drunk voice. 

He brings his hands back to Harry’s waist, brushing his thumbs across the cut of his hips where they jut above the waistband of his trousers. Harry beams at him; eyes alight with mischief as he backs slowly down the bed, dragging his mouth across what seems to Liam to be every bit of bare skin he can reach. Liam whines when Harry finally flicks the snap on his jeans and, with a single swift motion, unzips his fly and flicks the waistband of his jeans apart, cupping Liam through the warm cotton of his boxers. 

“Oh,” Harry breathes across the fabric, his smile dimpling his cheeks. Liam drags his hand away from touching Harry wherever he can reach to spread his palm flat on the bed, digging his fingertips into the thickness of the dark green bed covers. He pivots his hips upward and Harry hooks his fingers inside the waistband of Liam’s jeans and pants. Harry drags both down below the knees, settling between Liam’s legs once more. 

Liam’s harsh, nasal breaths and the distant ticking of a clock are the only noises in the room aside from the obscene sound of Harry licking enthusiastic trails from Liam’s balls to the head of his hardened cock, where it’s leaking low on his belly. “Please,” Liam whispers, fisting both hands in the bed covers. 

Harry’s long pink tongue teases between Liam’s foreskin where he wiggles it back and forth making Liam groan and himself laugh, hot puffs of breath against Liam’s oversensitive skin. Harry wrinkles up his nose and, with a small nod and never taking his eyes from Liam’s, wraps the base of Liam’s dick in the curl of his long fingers and swallows Liam down. Liam shouts and brings an arm over his face, panting into the crook of his elbow in time to the bob of Harry’s head.

“Harry,” Liam pants while slowly bringing his hand to rest atop the crown of Harry’s head. His fingers twist lightly in Harry’s curls, not pulling, just grounding himself, lost in the sensations rocketing through his system at the velvet soft opening and closing of Harry’s throat around his cock. Liam brushes curls from Harry’s forehead with shaking fingers and has to close his eyes at the naked need he sees where Harry looks up at him. It’s when Harry starts to groan, bucking his hips against Liam’s thigh, and Liam feels how hard he is, that Liam understands how desperate Harry is for this, too. “Harry,” Liam husks again, his palm pressing against Harry’s head. 

Harry slides his lips up along Liam’s erection, using the flat of his tongue to stroke at the leaking slit until he bows his shiny pink lips and presses a kiss to the tip, smearing precome. His hand still works along Liam’s length, squeezing and stroking his fingers to create a delicious kind of friction Liam can never get on his own. Hunching up and squeezing Liam’s thigh in his free hand, Harry licks at Liam’s balls, sucking one deep into his mouth. 

It’s that sensation that strips Liam’s orgasm straight down the nerves of his spine and out of his cock. He barks out a pained, startled noise, and before he can do more than pet at Harry’s curls between his spread fingers, viscous strands of come stripe Harry’s cheek, chin, and shoulder.

Harry scowls and releases Liam’s sac with a lewd, wet popping sound. He grunts and mumbles to himself before he raises his hand from where it’s gripping red marks into the top of Liam’s thigh. Liam blinks stupidly at Harry, the force of his orgasm winding him as he struggles to lean up on his elbows. “Oh god,” he whispers when Harry strokes his own fingers through the slippery mess on his cheek until they’re coated, and sucks Liam’s come into his mouth. 

“ ‘mere,” Harry straddles Liam’s hips, his cock glancing off Liam’s belly and making him groan. He hooks a hand around the back of Liam’s neck, drawing him forward to press a kiss to Liam’s open, surprised mouth. 

Feeling the slickness of his come pass from Harry’s tongue to his own, Liam mutters “Jesus Christ,” under his breath before returning the kiss. He trails his mouth across Harry’s cheek and chin, tongue following the still slick trail of his come across Harry’s skin, pale against the dark of the duvet. They kiss and touch, and Liam is acutely aware of the way Harry is stuttering his cock—still achingly hard and red against his pale skin--into the curve of Liam’s stomach and making mewling noises into Liam’s mouth. Grunting and finally breaking the kiss with a loud intake of breath, Liam squeezes Harry’s hips, flipping him over until his back is pressed into the mattress.

Harry’s laugh is loud and bright in the peace of the room and his hands drop easily to curve around Liam’s shoulders. He blinks at the nearness of Liam’s face, turning his head to press his cheek into the pillow when Liam reaches a hand between them, squeezing Harry’s cock and biting at the straining tendon in Harry’s neck. 

“I want…” Liam starts, swallowing and trying to remember how to form words. He’s a little shocked by the high, breathy tone of his voice. Harry’s hands sweep nonsense patterns across his shoulder blades, and his eyes are wide and intent as he waits for Liam to finish his thought. “I mean, that is…I suppose I’ve been thinking about …”

“Mmm?” Harry’s voice is a sleepy, wordless question as he presses his cheek to Liam’s.

“Right, so I guess I’ve been wondering for a while now what it would feel like…to have you inside me, I mean.” Liam laughs at himself, a low throaty chuckle.

Fully awake, now, Harry says, “Why Liam,” his breath puffing against Liam’s ear, “Are you asking me to fuck you?” He’s not laughing, but it’s a close thing. Liam can hear the threat of it in the amused lilt of it in Harry’s voice.

Nodding enthusiastically, Liam draws back, and with more confidence this time says, “Yes, yes I am. I’d really like that.”

“Me too,” Harry chuckles but his face is sincere.

“Well, okay. Right then. You’ve condoms?” Liam shuffles up the bed and with some kicking and wriggling manages to get the rest of the way out of his clothes and shoes. 

It’s only when he’s lying back on the bed and looks up that he realises Harry hasn’t moved, and has the most non-plussed expression on his face Liam can recall seeing in recent memory. “You've not got condoms?” Liam frowns in concern, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the pillow he’s leaning against.

Harry blinks and swallows, licking his tongue across his bottom lip, “Well,” he stands up, stepping out of his boots and undoing his belt. “Do you trust me?” he looks up at Liam from under the fall of his hair. He’s hopping on one foot then the other, skimming his trousers and pants down his long legs. 

It’s Liam’s turn to stifle a laugh as he takes in Harry, worried expression on his face, in the pool of his discarded clothing, still clad in his socks. “Yeah,” Liam finally answers Harry’s question, surprising himself. “Yeah, I trust you. I mean to be honest I have no bloody clue what you’re on about, like, with the …” he makes a vague gesture towards the hallway, meaning the sword hanging there, "but yeah, you seem to have been honest with me...

The crease of Harry’s brow relaxes and he smiles again, blindingly bright in the growing sunshine. “Good. Because I would never lie to you, Liam. Not ever. You need to believe that.” He slowly stalks his way back to the bed and up the mattress until he’s once more straddling Liam’s hips. He huffs out a whine at the feeling of his skin against Liam’s, and then leans down to whisper in Liam’s ear. “I’ve been celibate for over two hundred years.” He reaches out his index finger to trace Liam’s nose from between his brows to the tip, pushing in a little and biting his bottom lip.

Liam follows the slow path of Harry’s finger, eyes almost comically crossed. When Harry finally speaks, Liam’s eyes widen and he meets Harry’s unsure gaze. “Oh, um, well,” he pats Harry’s shoulder reassuringly; “I suppose it feels near about two hundred years since I last…” he trails off, wrinkling up his nose. “So, no condom then?” 

Harry worries at his lip with his thumb and forefinger and then leans down nuzzling at Liam’s jaw with his cheek. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“No, no. It’s all right,” Liam pats Harry’s shoulder again. “Just never done that, before. Let’s have a go then, shall we?” He tilts Harry’s face up and presses a quick kiss to the pink pout of his lips. 

“It’ll be ever so good! I promise,” Harry is up and off Liam so quickly Liam isn’t really sure what’s happening. He leans back on his elbows and frowns, tracking Harry’s padding across the bedroom and opening a door to what must be the master bath. After a good deal of banging and shuffling and a few muttered curses, Harry returns to the bedroom, a plastic bottle held aloft in victory. “Success!”

Liam’s eyes crinkle up in laughter at Harry’s enthusiasm. His breath is knocked from him when Harry sprawls on top of him, biting at his mouth until Liam opens up, easing them both back on to the mattress. He takes the bottle from Harry’s grip and his shoulders shake in silent mirth as he reads the label, “Boot's lotion?”

“How else do you think I keep my soft as a baby’s arse complexion?” Harry giggles as Liam tickles his fingers across the rise of his collar bones. 

Popping the lid on the bottle, Liam squirts a little of the body lotion into his palm, poking at it with his other hand, “Speaking of arses,” he waggles his eyebrows and smiles when Harry tilts his head back, laughing full out and bright like Liam has told the most hilarious joke in the world, “Um, do you want to or shall I?” He manages to wiggle free of Harry’s weight, spreading his legs and making a curving gesture with his fingers, slicking the lotion across their tips with his thumb.

Harry manages to quell his laughter and says, “Hold that thought.” The corners of his eyes tilt up as he smiles and slides down the mattress to once more lie in the sprawl of Liam’s legs. He sucks biting kisses to Liam’s hip and low on his belly, just below his navel. Liam hisses at the sensation and marvels at the number of red welts blooming in the wake of Harrys’ ministrations. He’s going to have a truly impressive collection of love bites in some rather tender places.

His breath hitches to a stop and he makes a gulping whine of shock. Harry continues to lick and bite until his tongue is tracing the sensitive ring of muscle at Liam’s entrance. “Oh,” Liam lets out a breathy sigh and then collapses back into the mound of pillows, one arm braced against the headboard behind him. Harry tongues further between Liam’s cheeks. Liam can’t stop his hips twitching up and he can feel his cock thickening once more. “Harry,” Liam breathes.

“Mmm,” Harry purrs against Liam, curling his tongue and flicking inside, making Liam flex his thighs tight against Harry’s shoulders. Harry brings his mouth away, looking up at Liam, and with a wink, wipes at his spit slicked lips. 

He holds out his hand, and it takes a second before Liam’s brain can process that he’s asking for the lotion. He takes Harry’s fingers in his, rubbing the now- body- heat- warmed cream across the pads of his fingertips. “Ta,” Harry says and with an extreme gentleness Liam wouldn’t have expected given their hurried pace so far, Harry teases the pad of his index finger across Liam’s hole before sliding it inside. 

Liam licks his lips and tilts his head forward, eager to see Harry’s long, graceful fingers slide inside him, one at a time. When he’s got three fingers in deep, Liam grunts and pushes down on Harry’s hand, encouraging him to move. It’s been a while since Liam’s been with a bloke—or anyone really--and the sense of being filled is more than a little overwhelming in the best of ways. 

He’d be embarrassed by the needy, eager noises he’s making if Harry weren’t so obviously turned on and encouraged by them. Liam pants and swears under his breath, using his feet flat against the mattress to brace himself against the wicked curl of Harry’s fingers inside him, echoed by the glide of his thumb back and forth over the space between Liam’s asshole and balls. “Jesus Harry, that’s so bloody good,” Liam manages to hack out, “I think I’m going to…”

Before Liam can finish his thought, Harry contorts himself so he can take Liam’s hard cock into his mouth, throat milking Liam’s orgasm from him. “Now, now, fuck me now, Harry. Please. _Please_.” Liam all but wails as he thrashes about , his arms curving the pillow against the sides of his head as he shakes through aftershocks. 

With a sly grin and pupils blown wide, Harry scrambles up from his contortions between Liam’s legs to loom over him. He drags his spit and spunk slicked lips across the faint stubble of Liam’s jaw, smearing them in the beads of sweat trailing from Liam’s hairline, and grabs one of Liam’s hands away from where they’re fisted in the pillow case. 

Cupping Liam’s palm close to his mouth, Harry delicately spits the load Liam has just blown into Liam’s own hand, and shifts up, his knees digging into the mattress on either side of Liam’s hips. Harry guides Liam’s cupped hand to his cock, and Liam whines through his nose when he realises what Harry wants of him. 

Liam circles his fingers around Harry’s straining, redhard and precome leaking cock. He slicks his own come along the impressive length of Harry’s shaft, pumping his hand efficiently and watching Harry squirm beneath his touch. 

“Okay, okay, c’mon,” Harry’s voice is pitched even lower than usual, and he grunts as he roughly shoves Liam’s hand away, forcefully pressing Liam’s wrist to the mattress as his fingers trail up the veins that stand out in stark relief along Liam’s forearm. Anything else Harry says dies in a fierce growl as he roughly hauls Liam’s knees up against his ribs until Liam is flat on his back, and pushing roughly inside him as he bites at Liam’s gasping mouth. “Shit Li, you feel incredible,” Harry pants into the side of Liam’s head. 

“Move,” Liam manages to bark breathlessly, squeezing Harry between his thighs. It’s like the signal Harry’s has been waiting for to leave behind his polite concern. 

He bucks and thrusts into Liam with wild abandon, the sound of skin on skin loud in the room. Harry’s big--far larger than even all three of his fingers have prepared Liam for. He groans at the stretch and burn of the feeling of Harry inside him, but kisses Harry; reassurance to ease the look of concern that flashes in Harry’s green eyes for the briefest of moments. Liam rocks up to meet every demanding thrust, biting at the bony rise of Harry’s shoulder.

He frowns in frustration as the mouth shaped mark evaporates until Harry’s skin is once more milky pale, dotted only with a few freckles. He bites harder, the feeling of flesh and muscle between his teeth and against his tongue. Harry moans at the sensation and pistons his hips harder, his thrusts erratic. 

Liam wants to mark Harry, wants some proof to ground him, to be sure that this is really happening after the months upon months of wanting and useless pining. The speed at which Harry’s body recovers from every bite and scratch has Liam determined to do everything harder; to do more, to find out if there’s a limit to whatever it is that protects Harry from bodily harm. Liam’s scraggly fingernails dig bloody crescents into the meat of Harry’s upper arms and Liam only has a moment to appreciate the way they stand out pink and angry, before they’re gone. 

He sucks welts into the column of Harry’s throat and feels anger unfurl low in his guts as his love bites disappear. But his attentions have the pleasant side effect of making Harry keen into Liam’s cheek. He drops one hand from the back of Liam’s knee to brace against the back of his head, cradling the fragile bones of Liam's skull in the broad expanse of his fingers, changing the angle of his urgent thrusting. 

Eyes widening with the realization that Harry is encouraging him to bite and scratch and _hurt_ him, Liam draws in a great lungfull of air before trailing bruising kisses against Harry’s jaw and shoulder. 

He’s hyper aware of the friction of their bodies on his too sensitive cock, trapped between the frantic slide and press of their stomachs. Liam’s certain each scratch and bite and mark he presses into Harry’s skin is the reason for Harry’s low, guttural moans of pleasure and his pinioning Liam against the mattress as he fucks him harder and deeper. Licking across the marks he’s made and tracing the shape of them with his tongue, Liam’s memorizing their feel before they too disappear. 

Harry’s fingers weave through the downy hairs at the nape of Liam’s neck, tugging in encouragement. The feel of Harry’s cock pounding against his prostate makes Liam see pinwheels behind his closed eye lids, and without thinking he opens his mouth and bites down on the smooth muscle of Harry’s bicep. 

He feels the soft skin give way and tastes the copper-penny brightness of Harry’s blood. A heartbeat later, the bedroom is filled with a sound half moan, half howl as Harry pulls out, just in time to coat the ripped definition of Liam’s abs and the flatness of his belly in thick stripes of come. Shaking with the force of his orgasm, Harry presses his mouth to Liam’s, kissing him sloppy and wet, smearing blood and come and spit and sweat, before collapsing down on top of him, both of them huffing out breathless, awed laughter. 

\+ + ++

Liam dozes. He’s never been much for sharing a bed, and it’s almost midday and he still has no answers to the million questions about Harry and the men in the park that are chasing round his mind like a dog after its tail. Harry, on the other hand, has fallen into a deep sleep. His mouth is lax and his breathing is loud. Liam watches the laboured rise and fall of his chest and then, out of curiosity shifts beneath the duvet they’d managed to crawl under, leaning close to Harry’s chest. 

“Please tell me you’re not listening for a heartbeat.” Harry’s voice is a deep rumble, thick with sleep. He opens one eye, studying Liam with a serious, appraising glance. But the corners of his lips are turned up in soft amusement.

“Uh…” Liam answers, his cheeks burning with embarrassment at being caught. 

Harry bites his lip and clasps Liam’s fingers in his, splaying their joined hands over his breastbone, where Liam can feel the reassuringly steady thump of Harry’s heart. “I’m not a vampire, Liam; not _the undead_.” Harry blinks-solemn and slow- his words forming just as slowly. “Quite the opposite, really. I _can’t_ die.”

Dragging his hand back across Harry’s chest to curl it in the sheets between them, Liam lets out a long breath and says, “So you’ve told me. But, honestly Harry, no matter what I’ve seen last night and then again this morning, had I not seen it with my own eyes I’m not sure I could believe it. I’m trying, I promise you I am, but please, help me understand.”

Hovering above Liam’s cheek for a moment, Harry thinks better of touching him and drops his hand to the sheets, mirroring Liam’s posture. “It’s true—what I told you in the kitchen. I am immortal. I was born almost two thousand years ago in what you now call Cheshire. I am the last of the Eceni people…”

“Oh! Like Boudica! I’ve seen her statue in London.” Liam blinks from the sleepy reverie of Harry’s voice and smiles.

Harry doesn’t return the smile, “Yes,” he sniffs haughtily, “and don’t think it doesn’t pain me greatly that the Roman pronunciation of my sister’s name has spread everywhere.”

“Your sister?” Liam’s eyes go round with shock.

“Yep,” Harry’s expression softens with remembrance. “She was always a leader, a warrior. Whereas I was more content to sit at my father’s knee and watch him work—he was the blacksmith for our village.” 

Something in Harry’s expression closes tight as a blossom at night time, and Liam reaches over to stroke his thumb across Harry’s knuckles. “Did you always know you were…did you always know what you are?” he whispers.

“No,” Harry’s voice is flat and passionless, like he’s telling a story he’s retold a million times. “When the Romans invaded Britain, my sister tried to teach me to fight, to learn the warrior ways of our people. But…I was terrible at it, wasn’t I?” he smirks then, the effort dimpling his cheek. “And then, the day after my eighteenth birthday, they came to our village.” As fast as it had appeared, the amusement in Harry’s expression and voice is gone. “I tried to be brave. I tried to fight, with, _Dorchas_ , the sword my father had made me for my birthday…”

Liam joins their fingers and gives a tiny squeeze before he asks, “The one you…use now?”

Harry nods, the spill of his curly hair shushing across the pillow case, “Yes, he remembered how delighted I’d been when he would take me to see the waterhorses come ashore as a child. He even worked them into the pommel and hilt. It was and remains the most beautiful sword I’ve ever seen, and all I have left of my family, now. The Romans…they burned our village to the ground. I’d hidden in my father’s forge, but they found me. I tried to fight...” 

Absently, Harry’s free hand finds a long strip of scar tissue, the only scar Liam’s noticed anywhere on Harry’s body, just above his right collarbone, and he traces it lightly with his fingertips. “I should have died. And for long days it seemed if the blow wasn’t to kill me, the infection which set in would.”

“Harry,” Liam murmurs, raising his arm to stop Harry’s worrying at his scar and, wrapping his palm over the round of Harry’s shoulder.

“I should have died, but I didn’t. I got better; much better. Far too quickly.” Harry lowers his forehead to Liam’s clavicle, their joined hands trapped between the close press of their bodies. “Those few who survived the Romans’ attack believed me cursed. They believed I had brought the attack on them, and that I was evil.” 

Harry swallows and takes a few steadying gulps of air before continuing. “I believed I was, too. I thought it was me who’d somehow brought _him_ there. That it was my fault so many had died.” He mumbles the last into the sweat damp skin of Liam’s neck.

Wrapping Harry in a fierce hug, Liam trails messy kisses against the side of his head. “But who is this _he_?” 

Pushing against Liam’s chest, Harry wriggles free from Liam’s embrace and lies flat on his back, clear green eyes staring at the ceiling. “He’s had many names: Baal, Asmodeus, Iblis, Satan. He’s far older than I; far older than anyone like me I’ve ever encountered. Whatever humanity he may have once had is gone now, if it ever existed to being with. He only wants The Prize so he can continue to rule in terror and fear.”

“You’re telling me you have to fight the Devil? Is that what this _Reckoning_ is?” Liam sits up quickly, the sheet and duvet sliding down to his hips as he stares at Harry in utter disbelief.

The corner of Harry’s mouth rises in a tired smile “I’ve told you no such thing, Liam. Those are your words, not mine. You seem to have reached that conclusion on your own.”

“Blimey,” is all Liam says before collapsing back into the heap of pillows, reaching out blindly for Harry’s hand and once more threading their fingers together. “Okay, okay. That’s not any more weird than anything else you’ve told me so far, is it?” Liam shakes his head quickly, like he’s trying to physically make sense of the bits and pieces of Harry’s story. “Right, so Roman devil attacked your village, you didn’t die, villagers afraid of you…and what happened next?”

Harry laughs, tucking his fringe back into place and says, “I ran away. I ran and I ran. I hid in forests, and caves. Anywhere really, away from people.” Harry frowns and Liam can’t help himself-- he leans over and kisses him gently on the mouth until Harry smiles again. “Then Ed found me. He knew me for what I was, and he could have killed me. But he didn’t.”

Harry’s smile is soft and fond, like it always seems to be when he’s talking about family and friends. “Instead he taught me to fight. He recognized the waterhorse my father had designed in the hilt of my sword, and he knew who I was. He helped me understand who I was, and who I was to become. And now I’ve repaid him for all of that by taking his head.”

“Harry,” Liam strokes his palm across Harry’s cheek, his fingers curving against the shape of Harry’s skull and gently tugging at the rioting curls there.

Voice shaking a little, Harry closes his eyes and swallows, “I have never actively sought out another of my kind. I have never engaged a fight. Not once, ever. But I’ve not ever backed down when challenged, either. There are some of us who see this immortal life as a curse, and take on a kind of madness. You can see it in their eyes, there’s nothing human there, anymore. I suppose I thought I was doing them a kindness. Freeing them, somehow, perhaps.”

“You were! You did. You did that same thing with Ed, don’t you see that?” Liam cups Harry’s chin, shaking it a bit so Harry will open his eyes and look at him, then squeezing the back of his neck. “Did you want Ed to have to fight this…Him?” Liam’s fingers card through Harry’s curls.

“No! God no,” Harry collapses into Liam’s petting with a soft, appreciative noise. “The only reason Ed kept his head as long as he did was because everyone loves…loved him. No one would dare challenge him.” Harry sniffles and frowns “Reverend August,” Harry supplies flatly, raising an eyebrow at Liam’s shocked expression. “In this lifetime, my…enemy…that’s what he’s calling himself. Yep, he started a church, the bastard. You’ve no doubt seen his adverts in tube stations, ranting about 2012 and the end of the world? Funny thing is, it has little to do with God at all. And now it’s up to me to end this, and him, isn’t it?” 

Liam’s eyes are a wide solemn brown as he says, “I’ll help you.”

Harry places a gentle kiss to Liam’s palm. “If only you could,” he says softly.

“I can! I will!” Liam insists. He untangles their joined fingers to squeeze at Harry’s hip. “I can be, like, your companion or whatever…”

Laughing, Harry kisses Liam’s cheek and says, “I’m not Doctor Who!”

“Okay then like your familiar or something,” Liam’s cheeks pink and he mumbles into the pillow.

Harry shifts on the bed, wrapping his arms around Liam’s neck and kissing him soundly before saying, “Not a witch either, sweetheart, despite with the puritans of Salem might have to say about my ill-advised trip to the colonies.” 

Liam’s eyebrows crease in confusion, but Harry is smiling, so Liam runs a hand along the dip of Harry’s spine and says, “I just think you’ve been on your own for too long, dealing with this by yourself. I want to help. Please let me?”

“Maybe you’re right.” Harry muses quietly. 

“Course I am. So, what happens now? Do we march over to the Church of Eternal Light and let fly?” Liam tilts his chin to allow Harry more access to the pale skin of his neck, and inhales quickly at the sensation of Harry’s mouth on him.

Nipping lightly at the smooth tendon Liam’s bared to him, Harry snorts a little and says, “Not quite. Consecrated spaces are scared--holy.” Harry lets his tongue trail over the red mark he’s made for a beat or two, blowing gently across Liam’s skin and making goosepimples rise. “There aren’t many…rules to this, but that is absolutely true. Always has been. So he’s safe in his little church and I…we’re safe here.”

“Here?” Liam leans up on his elbows, glancing around the bedroom.

“Yeah,” Harry runs a hand over top of Liam’s head and gets him to settle close once more, “This house was originally the vicar’s house for the church over the road. It’s a part of the church grounds, so—sacred.”

Rolling away from Harry, Liam pulls the covers up to his chest and links his fingers behind his head, elbows jutting out into the pillows. “So, what are you meant to do? Ring one another on your mobiles and be all _yeah, 8 pm Friday, Hampstead Heath, bring the big sword_ or something?” Liam raises his hand to his face and mimes speaking into a telephone.

Harry laughs, head back and mouth open, and shifts towards Liam. “Noooo!” he jerks on Liam’s arm, Liam playfully resisting until Harry has Liam’s arm settled around his waist. “It will happen when it’s meant to.” Harry scowls and swats at Liam, “Don’t look at me like that! I’m not talking about destiny or fate or anything. It’s just, when he comes for me, I’ll know.”

“When he comes for you,” Liam says in a low voice, rubbing his index finger along Harry’s furrowed brow. 

“Yeah, I dunno it’s like I can sense when…someone like me is around. I think it’s the same for all of us. Never really talked about it with anyone but Ed, so…” Harry shrugs and kisses Liam’s cheek before flopping down and cuddling into his side.

Liam strokes his fingers along Harry’s arm, still trying to fit all the puzzle pieces of everything Harry’s told him together. “Sense it, like you sensed me at the warehouse? You said you could hear my heartbeat.”

Harry’s quiet for a long time, his hand splayed flat low on Liam’s stomach, and his breathing loud in Liam’s ear. Liam tilts his head awkwardly, checking to see if Harry’s fallen asleep. He’s not asleep, his eyes are wide and a pretty, pale green. They’re filled with something so like sorrow that Liam makes a pained noise and cuddles him close. “No. Not like that. It’s kind of like…bees buzzing inside my head, or like that feeling you get when all the hairs stand up on your neck and arms?” Harry speaks very slowly and deliberately. “What happened with you today was…different.”

“Oh,” Liam keeps petting him, concentrating on the feeling of Harry’s skin beneath his fingertips. “So, I suppose the heartbeat thing is something you hear from people…who aren’t like you?”

“I’m not a superhero, Liam. I don’t have supersonic hearing or the like. Although sometimes it seems my gift is my curse. ” 

Liam snorts at Harry’s answer. “Spiderman? Really?”

Harry laughs and scratches his nose, swatting at Liam. “Ha, ha. But no, it’s not something I sense with everyone else. Only someone who is…who’s mine.”

Liam stops mid yawn and his stomach does flip flops at the possessive, sure way Harry says _mine_. “Oh, um. Er…so it’s happened before then, has it?”

“Once. Long time ago, now.” Harry’s voice is low and his long lashes twitch against his cheeks as he closes his eyes and bites his bottom lip. 

Liam clears his throat and awkwardly asks, “A long time ago, like the last person you were um, uncelebate with?”

“Yeah, exactly like that, so.” Harry extricates himself from Liam, rolling back to his side of the bed, staring at the ceiling and crossing his arms over his chest.

Liam touches his fingertips lightly to the bend of Harry’s elbow. “Tell me about them?”

Harry snorts, turning his head to look at Liam but keeping the distance between them. “Isn’t that bad form? Talking about an old love whilst in bed with a new…person?”

Rolling onto his stomach and hugging a pillow beneath his head, Liam studies Harry’s expression, sees how he’s trying to make a joke of it, but pain lingers in the corners of his eyes, and in the slight downturn of his mouth, even after decades—centuries have passed. “I asked,” he shrugs. 

“His name was Louis. And I loved him.” Liam winces in sympathetic pain at the rawness in Harry’s voice, so evident even in two simple sentences. “He was this bright, shining, pretty thing.” Harry turns on his side, facing Liam and watching his expression as he talks.

“Sounds like someone I know,” Liam says quietly, smiling as he reaches out to trace the shape of Harry’s brow with his thumb.

Harry stares at Liam and tries to smile back. Fidgeting under the duvet, he curls his knees up, hugging them to his chest. “I met him in France. People were starving in the streets while the King held court. And I, as my good friend Edward used to say, had a passionate intolerance for injustice of any kind, so I joined the resistance. And because of that, because of me, Louis died.”

“French Revolution,” Liam says simply.

“Mmm,” Harry’s voice is slow and deep, and even in the absolute stillness of the bedroom, Liam has to strain to hear him, when he continues. “Louis’ family had once been middle class, his father a merchant. But his father abandoned his family, leaving behind Louis, his mother, and four small sisters to fend for themselves. His mother sold all her possessions to feed her children. Until the only thing left to do was sell herself.” Harry pauses, scratching at his nose, lost in memory.

Liam makes a small noise of distress, but doesn’t reach out to touch Harry, or offer comfort like he wants to, but isn’t sure Harry will allow. Instead he nods a little, bidding Harry to continue. “And of course, our Louis couldn’t have that. He had a sharp tongue and sharper wits and he still had…access to a certain social circle. He was basically a very charming, very canty thief. A pick-pocket.”

“He picked your pocket.” Liam guesses. Ever so slowly Harry releases his death grip on his knees and lowers his legs back to the mattress, turning more onto his side. He brushes a hand along Liam’s arm and that’s all the encouragement Liam needs to draw Harry close, spooning behind him. 

“Yep,” the faraway look in Harry’s eyes grows and his irises darken. “But, I recognized a kindred spirit. Someone who despised a system that could see some up to their arses in gold and fancy tea cakes because of nothing more than then the circumstances of their birth, while good people like his mum were forced into desperate acts to ensure their family had scraps of bread in their bellies.” Harry traces the path of the veins in Liam’s forearms where they rest low across his hips, anchoring them both to this time and place. 

“He was ridiculous, in his pastel breeches and lace jabots and powdered wigs. He was like some kind of pet all the Salon ladies cooed and fussed over; while he was learning the secrets their husbands told them in bed at night, and pilfering letters from their desks right under their noses and before their eyes. He was amazing.” 

Liam feels the caged bird panic of Harry’s breathing, and hears the roughness of his voice. “What happened to him, Harry?”

“He lied. For me. To protect me, and his sisters. Someone, somehow had traced my…connection to Louis and to his family home. One night, in the middle of the night, the one known now as Reverend August and the King’s army came to arrest me.” Harry blows out a breath and Liam can feel where his fingers are wrapped tight around his own. “But Louis said it was him, alone. And for whatever reason, August didn’t challenge the load of rubbish Louis spouted. And they took him away. Then they burned the house down anyway. He made me hide in a stable with his sisters and I had to watch as they lead him away in irons.” 

The silence stretches awkwardly on and the only thing Liam can think of to say is, “I’m so sorry, Harry.” and kiss the back of his head.

“Do you know what happened to those arrested for treason?” Harry wriggles around, head cocked at an awkward angle in an attempt to meet Liam’s eyes. “It’s not the guillotine, I can tell you that. Only the very rich got the privilege of a swift death. Louis spent months in their horrible, diseased-filled prison. I tried everything in my power to have him released. Then, everything in my power to free him myself, by whatever means. But it wouldn’t work. He wouldn’t budge. He’d confessed.” Harry burrows his face into Liam’s neck and says quietly, “In a crowd of strangers screaming for blood, I had to watch him hang. There was nothing I could do but promise to take care of his mother and sisters for the rest of their lives. He died for me, Liam.”

If Liam feels Harry’s hiccupping sobs beneath his palms and wetness on his skin, he doesn’t say anything about it, only asks, “You’ve never told anyone that before, have you?”

“No,” Harry says, wetly, shaking his head so his curls brush across Liam’s cheek. “So, you see, I’ve never had the luxury of watching anyone I’ve loved grow old.”

“Harry, it wasn’t your fault. Louis made the choice to join the Resistance. He made the choice to protect his home, and you…”

“But it was August! And he came for _me_! No one should ever have to pay for my affection with his life, Liam. Not ever.” Harry sits up grasping both of Liam’s hands in his. 

Liam wriggles out of Harry’s frantic grasp and raises his hand to cup Harry’s cheek, scooting close to him again, pressing their foreheads together. “So, you’ve pushed everyone away, all this time.”

“Yes,” Harry nods, rolling his forehead against Liam’s. “It’s for the best…for everyone.”

“But Harry, don’t you see? You’re so easy to love,” Liam tips Harry’s face up and kisses him very softly. 

Harry deepens the kiss, mouth eager and open against Liam’s. His palms slide down the wide expanse of Liam’s back as Liam lowers them to the mattress. They’re silent for long moments, not sleeping, not kissing, just taking comfort in one another’s presence and trying to deal with the sadness that’s settled over them.

Harry finally breaks the quiet, “Liam, please, please know that I didn’t get in touch with you after our last date, not because I didn’t want to, but because I wanted to, so very much. I just…I know no other way keep you safe…August will surely use you—harm you—to get to me.”

Liam’s smile crinkles his eyes. “But I’m here now, and we can’t go back. I won’t go back. Looks like you’re stuck with me. ‘sides, I’m pretty much irresistible.” Maybe now isn’t the time for jokes or levity, but Liam is at a loss for how he’s supposed to proceed in the aftermath of Harry’s story. 

Brushing his nose against Liam shoulder, Harry sighs melodramatically, but grateful for Liam’s attempt to shift the mood and says, “Yes, and humble too.” That makes Liam pinch his side, and they both giggle and wrestle until Liam has Harry pinned to the bed, arms stretched over his head and knuckles glancing of the headboard. “I thought I could change things, you know?”

Liam shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes, “Harry I have no idea what you’re on about right now.”

“The books? All the books I’ve been buying from your shop? My courses at the university? Maybe the Mayans were on to something.” Harry muses, smoothing Liam’s hair back into place.

Blinking owlishly, Liam says, “Honestly Harry, do you have entire conversations inside your own head? Because while I’m sure what you’re saying means something to you, but why are you rabbiting on about books and Mayans? What’s that got to do with the price of tea…”

Harry huffs out a frustrated sigh and then, licking his lips, tries to explain, “Okay so, like it’s the Mayans said the world’s supposed to end on uh, twelfth December 2012, innit?”

“Superstitious bunk,” Liam snaps. “I still don’t get…”

“Let me finish!” Harry presses a finger to Liam’s lips and laughs when Liam crosses his eyes to look at it. “Right, so. Mayans said end of the world is December this year. And now it seems The Reckoning is this year.”

Liam bites Harry’s finger where it’s still pressed to his mouth, “Reckoning?”

“Yeah, aside from sensing when another one like me is around, and the neutral, hallowed ground thing, it’s sort of the only other thing all us immortal types seem to know. The time of The Reckoning; when the last two of my kind fight for The Prize.”

“What kind of prize? The other bloke’s head on a stick?” Liam raises an eyebrow, dubious.

Harry’s delighted guffaw rings through the room. “Not hardly. More like, all knowledge, all power. One’s heart’s desire, really. So you better bloody hope when the time comes I can pull the result or it’s all going to shite.”

“What’s your heart’s desire?” Liam finally rolls onto his side, tracing the plump rise of Harry’s bottom lip with his finger tip.

Harry pouts a little before saying, “Don’t laugh,” and smoothing his fringe over his forehead.

“Never,” Liam promises solemnly, smacking a kiss to Harry’s cheek.

“Mortality.” Harry answers quickly, lowering his gaze to stare at his hand where it rests on Liam’s hip. “I long so badly for a human life. Do you know what the Spaniards where looking for amongst the Mayan empire? El Dorado.”

“The lost City of Gold. ‘course. Animated classic.” 

“S’more what was in the City of Gold, really. The Fountain of Youth.” Harry smirks at Liam’s perplexed expression but continues, “and then, in the Middle Ages, the philosophers and alchemists…they were trying to find the same thing…”

Liam makes a fussy whine of confusion, and, brows knit, says, “I thought they were trying to like, use unicorn horns or somesuch to turn lead into gold?”

Harry snorts and says, “Unicorns. What a great heap of codswallop. A stable lad half in his cups shags a deformed goat and covers it up with a load of bollocks about magical horses and all the little girls coo and aww.”

Shoulders shaking in silent laughter, Liam says, “Right then, waterhorses—real. Unicorns—not. Got it. But, I still don’t follow what in pinging hell it is yer sayin’.”

“I’m trying to explain, ya spoon! Pay attention, Payne!” Harry playfully cuffs Liam on the shoulder and it’s only the fact that he starts talking again and Liam has to focus his attention on figuring out what Harry’s point is that keeps Liam from picking up their earlier play fighting. “All those books? Those alchemy and metallurgy books I’ve been buying from your shop?” Harry waggles his head back and forth, pushing his finger into Liam’s breast bone in time to his words, trying to physically will Liam to understand what he’s getting at.

“What? Are y’ trying to make gold or something?” Liam lays back, one arm behind his head, and scratches his belly with his free hand, looking more confused than ever. “Not enough pounds in the bank for you, then?”

Harry butts his forehead against Liam’s shoulder. “Ugh…” he makes a frustrated noise. “Gold wasn’t the end game, Li. They were looking for the same thing the Spaniards were after in the Mexican jungle…”

“Endless youth?” Liam purses his lips and blinks up at Harry.

“Yeah! And I dunno, I suppose I thought maybe the opposite might be true, as well. If I could only just figure it out.”

Liam gets it then and he rolls over, pinning Harry in place. “Harry Styles,” he says in a low, amused voice, “are you trying to tell me you’re looking to find the secret to _mortality_?” 

“Well, yes.” Harry says in an embarrassed tone, plucking at the light hairs just above Liam’s wrist. “I just thought maybe I could find a way to put an end to all the fighting…without fighting. But I couldn’t do it. At least, I’ve not been able to--not yet.”

“Oh, Harry. What are ya like?” Liam voice is fond and he is just so damned charmed. He laughs when Harry wrinkles up his nose. Liam brushes his lips over the tip of it, and Harry’s cheeks and chin and forehead before settling a very firm kiss to Harry’s wide mouth. They kiss and touch and Liam slides his hands down Harry’s long body to trace nonsense patterns low over his belly. He makes a face, and leaning back from a kiss says, “God, but we’re disgusting.”

Harry pouts outrageously and says, “I think we’re bloody adorable, so there.” He darts up and smacks a kiss to Liam’s cheek.

“No. Like actually disgusting. And bloody.” Liam wriggles his fingers right in front of Harry’s face. Harry’s blood is caked in the lines of Liam’s knuckles and around his nails. “And um…other, you know…stuff.” His lips curl exaggeratedly as he motions to his own belly and the sticky mess on the side of Harry’s face. 

Chuckling, Harry says, “Well, suppose it’s best we shower then, yeah?”

“Yeah, best.” Liam nods in agreement, flipping the duvet over the side of the bed and grabbing Harry’s hands to hurry him out of the bed.

\+ + + +

They pad across the soft carpet, giggling and tripping over one another, Harry pulling Liam towards the door he’d earlier gone through to get the lotion. It takes far longer than it should because every few steps Liam stops, tugging on their laced fingers to draw Harry close and kiss him. Harry hums happily and pokes Liam in the ribs with his free hand, making him giggle. They tussle and half-heartedly wrestle, constantly touching until they finally reach the bathroom. “Good Lord!” Liam announces when they step inside the room.

He shouldn’t be surprised, really. He’s seen enough of Harry’s house that he should know what to expect. Like every other room, it’s large and sleek; green-grey marble and chrome everywhere. Liam’s gaze falls immediately to the extremely large, deep soaker tub taking up an entire corner of the spacious room. “Homey, innit?” Harry smiles and squeezes the back of Liam’s neck.

Snorting Liam says, “You’re bloody fucking plush aren’t ya?” while he runs the fingers of his free hand along the edge of the tub and curls his toes into the heated flooring.

“Little bit?” Harry shrugs and smiles a bit, curious. “You into bathtubs, Payne?”

Liam laughs at himself and shakes his shoulders. “Yeah, loves a bath. Not the best choice to deal with our current state of us, though.” He wrinkles up his nose, once more picking at the dried blood flaking on Harry’s abdomen. 

“Mmm, then come here where it’s cozy,” Harry murmurs, kissing Liam’s neck and walking them over to the half of the room encased in glass; the shower.” The step beyond the glass partition and instantly a steady spray of perfectly, delightfully, hot water hits them without anyone have to touch the taps, making Liam’s laugh morph into a groan. 

With one hand anchored firmly at Liam’s hip, Harry brushes his lips across Liam’s as he reaches around him, snagging a bottle from a recessed ledge in the marble. He flicks the cap with his thumb and then makes a frustrated, whining noise—unwilling to let go of Liam long enough to squirt some of the soap into his palm. Liam opens his eyes, blinking water away, and laughing as he watches Harry squeeze the bottle and trickling a long line of dark green soap across his own chest. “Help me,” Harry raises an eyebrow and juts his hips out towards Liam.

“Yes, right then.” Liam takes a flannel from a tiny metal bar by the taps and, with a furrowed brow leans close to scrub at the caked on blood still splatted across Harry’s abdomen. He inhales and licks his lips. The soap smells like Harry: a little like he’s always imagined the ocean to smell but at the same time, spicy, warm, and expensive. 

Harry makes small, encouragingly pleased noises as Liam makes easy work of scrubbing Harry clean. He loops his arms loosely over Liam’s shoulders and Liam continues to drag the flannel through lather, scrubbing Harry’s skin pink. 

Harry laughs and says, “Your turn now,” grabbing the cloth and standing up to drag Liam closer. He turns Liam so he’s leaning over his back, Liam’s arm’s out in front of them both. He holds Liam loosely around the wrist as he scrubs at the dried blood clotted around his finger nails. “D?” he asks, rubbing his thumb across the mound of flesh below Liam’s thumb, and over the tiny letter tattooed there in stark black ink. 

Liam makes a face, scrunching up his nose and shrugging . “You’re not the only one to have loved and lost, Mr. Tragic Back Story.” He leans against Harry’s chest and hopes Harry gets the humor in his voice.

Harry’s eyes crinkle and he laughs under his breath. He’s stopped any pretense of washing Liam, dropping the flannel to the shower floor. He’s quiet for a moment, the water sluicing over both of them. “You can tell me, if you’d like.” Harry drops his head to Liam’s shoulder, the wet tendrils of his hair sticking to the side of his face and Liam’s neck.

“Not much to tell, really. She didn’t die. She left me, Danielle did.” Liam shakes water from his face and reaches over to grab shampoo from the rack. He focuses his attention on squeezing out a dollop, rubbing his palms together and then turns to run his fingers through Harry’s soaked curls.

Harry’s eyes flare open wide and he jerks upright from Liam’s scratching at his scalp. His mouth turned down at Liam’s words, he asks “Left you? Who in their right mind would ever leave _you_?” and brushes his thumb along Liam’s cheek.

Embarrassed, Liam flicks his gaze away from Harry’s and busies himself with rinsing away the shampoo he’s applied, carefully visoring Harry's brow with the bracket of his palm. “What d’ya mean? I’m just me, aren’t I? And well, she said two starving artists in one relationship was one too many for her.” Liam takes another flannel from the rack and taps at Harry’s waist, encouraging him to turn more fully under the spray of hot water.

Allowing himself to be gentled around, Harry reaches out, slapping his palms flat against the shower wall and bowing his head under the stream. “I mean,” he says slowly, licking his lips and watching as the soapy water swirls down the plug hole, “You’re just good, aren’t you? I think you’re probably the best person I know.”

“Dunno about that,” Liam mutters, embarrassed. He drags the flannel down the long expanse of Harry’s back, strong fingers digging into tensed muscles. “’sides if the rest of the people you know are anything like the ones I’ve encountered so far, that’s not saying much, is it?” He raises an eyebrow and laughs in relief when Harry laughs.

“I just suppose if a person is so lucky to have someone like you, they should do everything they can to keep you.” Harry turns around and wraps his arms around Liam’s waist, leaning in close and ghosting his lips over Liam’s neck, mouthing at his birth mark. “Also, when someone pays you a compliment, the traditional response is thank you, Liam.”

Liam scrunches up his face and parrots, “Thank you Liam,” making Harry elbow him in the ribs as they both giggle and poke at each other. Liam snaps his teeth at Harry, and slots their fingers together, fanning their arms out from his sides, and away from the tender spots Harry insists on attempting to tickle.

Flicking his hair out of his eyes, Harry studies Liam for a moment then asks, “So what did she mean, then?” and bites his lip.

“Oh, ehm—the _starving artist_ bit?” Liam swallows and blinks like he’s trying to figure out what to say.

“Yeah.” Harry’s long fingers trace reassuringly along the rise of Liam’s hip.

Sighing, Liam mumbles, “You’ll make fun of me.”

“Liam,” Harry’s voice is clear and serious, echoing a little in the high-ceilinged space space, “I’ve just told you I am almost two thousand years old and on a quest to slay a giant, as it were, and you didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. I assure you, you can tell me anything and I won’t make fun of you, not about this.” Harry runs his hands through Liam’s wet hair, pushing it back from his face and ducking his head, trying to meet Liam’s glance and make him smile. “People in ridiculous houses shouldn’t throw teases, wha’?”

Liam smirks and huffs out a small, insecure laugh. “I just…do you watch The X Factor?”

Harry blinks, surprised by the question, “Of course! Who doesn’t?”

Stretching a tendril of Harry’s wet hair down to his shoulder and wrapping a curl around his finger, Liam says, “Ever since I was a lad, it’s been my dream to be a singer.” He’s watching the hypnotic movement of his own finger as he winds and unwinds the strand of hair from his index finger. “S’why I came to London, innit? I thought if only I just tried hard enough, that I could do it, that I could make a go of it.” He sighs heavily and rests his head against the curve of Harry’s shoulder when Harry coaxes him into a hug. “Danielle is a dancer. She was having a tough time--getting a few jobs at trade shows and such like. And I kept taking gigs which barely paid my tube fare to get me there.”

“So she broke it off with you.” Harry’s voice is a soothing rumble under Liam’s cheek.

“Yeah, seemed to be the charm, though. She’s got loads of jobs now. Teaching too.’ Liam can’t help the smile that curves his lips when he talks about Danielle, even now. “And I got a job at the book shop, and well…”

Harry cups Liam’s face in his palms and kisses him softly, “No more singing? I bet you’re brilliant.”

Liam makes a face and rolls his eyes, “Actually me and few of my mates have a group, and I think we’ve got quite good.” He wrinkles his nose in self-deprecation. “We’re thinking of signing up for try outs at the next series of The X Factor,” he says all in a rush. “See? I told you it was stupid.”

“If by stupid you mean massive and amazing, then yes!” Harry huffs out, his brows wrinkled indignantly. “You’re gonna smash it, Li. I know it.”

Liam smiles softly, blushing and a little embarrassed by Harry’s enthusiasm, “G’won with ye. You’ve never even heard me sing.” He shoves at Harry’s shoulder.

“Can’t wait to.” Harry answers simply, pressing himself even further into Liam and biting at his earlobe. “You’re not one to brag. are you then? If you say you’re good, you’re good.”

Something that has nothing to do with the shower spreads warmly through Liam’s chest and he smiles full out at Harry. “Thank you, you know, for not laughing at me.” Liam hitches his shoulders in a dismissive laugh. 

“Thank you for trusting me enough to believe I never would,” Harry presses his forehead to Liam’s. They smile stupidly at each other as the shower spray continues to soak them. 

Harry links his fingers with Liam’s and his thumb strokes over Liam’s tattoo. “I have often thought,” he starts slowly, clearing his throat and licking his lips, “I have often thought what a gift it would be, to ink the weight of memory into skin.”

Liam cocks his head and stares at Harry, stroking his fingers across Harry’s arms and gathering him close again, “I can’t begin to imagine the things you’ve seen. Or done. Such a very long time to have to carry it all, alone. ”

Harry doesn’t reply, just nuzzles into Liam’s petting and makes a soft humming noise. His eyes are closed and his long lashes are dark where they’re sticking to his cheeks from the shower spray. 

“Does it ever get easier?” Liam asks softly and Harry’s not even sure he knows he’s said it aloud.

“Hrm?”

Licking his lips, Liam wriggles away from Harry`s embrace, to lean against the marble wall. Their only point of contact is the steady brush of Harry`s thumb across his hand. “Erm, I dunno…when you love someone, yeah?” he just watches the slide of Harry’s skin across his own. “But then, they’re gone. And you don’t love them any less, but like, there’s a hole inside you—this empty place where their love for you used to be…” Liam stops short and looks up at Harry from beneath heavy lashes. “That empty lost feeling, does it ever go away?” 

Harry’s quiet for a long time. Once more picking up the sodden cloth from where Liam had dropped it, he moves in close to Liam, busying himself with swiping the flannel ineffectually over Liam’s collarbones and chest, watching as the lather is washed away in rivulets by the strong spray. “So, like _time heals all wounds_? That sort of thing?” Harry smirks but doesn’t even try to meet Liam’s eyes, just keeps rubbing the soft terrycloth over his skin. 

Liam’s reply is a curt nod, and Harry still doesn’t look up, just exhales slowly before he says, “That would be lovely, wouldn’t it? But I think…I think perhaps all time does is let us lie to ourselves, a little. Like, maybe it tricks us into thinking we’re fine. Like, just because we can’t remember exactly what his laugh sounds like or the precise place on his forearm where the little patch of freckles is anymore…that we’re fine, we’re all good, it’s over. But like, not really.” Harry scratches at his nose and rests his back against the shower wall, standing beside Liam but not touching him. 

“Sometimes I think it’s never over.”

“Because, because one day, when you’re fine, you’re just fine, thank you very much, and you’ve ordered a coffee and you’re thinking about what to make for dinner and you’re sat in the sun and then—WHAM!” Harry slaps his palms together.

The noise is loud in the shower stall, making Liam jump. “You’ll see something out of the corner of your eye, or you’ll hear something that’s just far enough away it’s only a faint sound on the wind, but like, it’s enough. It’s him or it’s a reminder that he’s not here anymore, and he never will be again. And that big black hole inside you opens up again and this time, this time there’s not that warm blanket of constant grief to protect you from the hurt…it’s,” He pauses and his eyes are so wide and so sad that Liam makes a pained noise in the back of his throat, kissing across his cheek and at the corner of his mouth. “It’s much worse,” Harry finishes with a rasp.

“Hazza,” Liam says, softly pressing tiny kisses to the fullness of Harry’s mouth. He strokes his palms down Harry’s arms and across his waist, trying to comfort him. “You wear your scars and stitches on the inside, don’t you?” With a careful hand, Liam traces the jagged pucker of skin that snakes along Harry’s clavicle and up his neck.

Harry takes Liam’s hand in his own, stilling the delicate probing with kisses to his fingertips. “Not much choice,” his smile is sad when he looks up at Liam.

Liam blinks and swallows and then, nodding a little says, “Well, so. Right then. I’m not going anywhere. You have me, now.”

Smiling and pressing his forehead to Liam’s, Harry says, “We have each other.”

Tilting his head to kiss Harry, fragile as a soap bubble, Liam rubs his cheek across the sparse stubble on Harry’s chin before moving his hands to Harry’s square, narrow hips. Encouraging him back into a recess in the marble wall, Liam asks “Do I wanna know why your shower has seats?” He raises an eyebrow in a comic exaggeration of confusion as he sinks to his knees.

“Sometimes takes a while to get all the blood off,” Harry answers matter-of-factly and then seeing the look on Liam’s face he says, “But this is a much better reason.” He curls his palm gently at Liam’s jaw and says, “You don’t have to.”

Nuzzling at the inside of Harry’s knee, Liam closes his eyes and swallows thickly, “I’d like to. I’ve made you sad. You should never be sad, Harry.” Liam traces his lips across the blue-green vein that runs along the inside of Harry’s thigh.

Harry sighs and the look he gives Liam is fond as he touches the pad of his thumb to the plump swell of Liam’s bottom lip. “You’ve not made me sad. I’m not, not really. I promise.” His fingers slide across the wet skin of Liam’s neck to card his fingers through Liam’s short hair. But he doesn’t make any move to get up or push Liam away.

“You should be happy, always. “ Liam answers, darting his tongue out and tracing across Harry’s hip bone. He smiles against warm skin when he bites at the paleness, and hears Harry’s appreciative moan. He tickles his fingers behind Harry’s knee, making him giggle, and dimpling his cheeks. Finally, Liam darts his tongue out to taste the hardening length of Harry’s cock, heavy in his hand.

Liam inhales Harry’s scent; a heady mix of his expensive body wash, shampoo, and something else spicy and dark that Liam has come to associate with Harry himself. He tongues at Harry’s frenulum and smiles when Harry makes a deep, satisfied noise and spreads his legs, feet braced on the shower stall floor.

Liam wriggles closer as he swallows at Harry’s considerable length. He might not have Harry’s finesse or skill, but he’s into it and eager to please Harry. And judging by the low grunts of pleasure and the way Harry’s hips are twitching, that’s enough.

Fully hard now and leaking across Liam’s eager tongue, Harry tilts his head back and winds his fingers in the drying tufts of Liam’s hair. Liam smiles around his mouthful and slurps a lick from the root to the tip of Harry’s long shaft. He works Harry’s balls with the spread fingers of one hand, and squeezes reassurance and encouragement into the top of Harry’s thigh with the other. 

The feeling of Liam’s wet hot mouth perfectly working him is enough to send shockwaves radiating out from the base of Harry’s spine and all along his hard dick. Harry has time to do little more than shout and yank at the strands of Liam’s hair he’s wound round his fingers before his orgasm is flooding Liam’s mouth. “Sorry, sorry,” Harry pants, patting at Liam’s cheek when he makes a displeased mewling sound, and pulls off. 

Swiping at the slick mix of come and saliva that’s trailing from his mouth to his chin, Liam leans over and spits his mouthful down the plug hole before wiping at his lips with the back of his wrist and kneeing his way back to where Harry has sprawled. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, pecking a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth. 

“S’alright,” Harry flaps at Liam’s shoulder without opening his eyes. He draws him close and they huff stuttered breaths against each other’s faces, not really kissing but not wanting to be parted. “Should have warned you. So good Li. Jesus.”

Liam’s shoulders shake with silent, amused laughter, “Not too shabby then I suppose,” he curls into Harry’s side, his head leaning heavily on Harry’s broad shoulder as he traces his finger along the receding pink flush across Harry’s chest. 

Harry presses sloppy kisses to Liam’s hairline, cheek, and jaw before slicking the point of his tongue along the seam of Liam’s lips. He smiles against their pressed mouths as Liam opens up to him with a groan. The kiss deepens and Liam is fitted awkwardly between the wall, with his arms around Harry’s neck and one leg thrown across Harry’s. Harry starts to laugh into Liam’s mouth when he feels the stutter of Liam’s hips as he ruts at air.

“Here, here,” Harry says quietly. He gets them to their feet and then, with a tilt of his head so he can look behind him, smiles wickedly and stretches his arms up over his head, pressing his chest into the water slick marble. Panting and confused, Liam blinks into the still deliciously hot spray of the shower, watching in fascination as Harry stretches and spreads himself out against the wall. “C’mon then,” Harry purrs, jutting his arse out to grind playfully against Liam’s crotch.

“Ooof,” all of Liam’s breath leaves his lungs at the feel of Harry against his sensitive, hardening cock. “Harry,” he pants, pawing at Harry’s hips, his thumbs tracing the divots over the swell of Harry’s bum. He can’t help but rub against Harry to relieve some of the building pressure between his legs and at the base of his spine.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry manages to say, his voice like gravel, and pitched even lower than his normal tone. Sliding one hand down the wall, Harry slaps out blindly searching for the bottle of shampoo or body wash, anything to slick the way. His fingers curl around a cap and he hands it back to Liam, who stares blankly at the bottle for a moment, huffing into the nape of Harry’s neck before he takes it from Harry. 

He squeezes some of the dark liquid into his palm and swipes it low across Harry’s back. He watches as the soap turns to lather and slides down between Harry’s arse cheeks. Liam’s panting now , and getting an arm around Harry’s waist to balance himself. He can feel Harry’s breathing hitching, and even without being able to see it, Liam can trace the spread of a warm pink blush across Harry’s chest and belly. 

Liam’s thumb slips between the pale globes of Harry’s ass cheeks and he smears the lather over Harry’s hole, tracing it with his fingernail, and bowing his head between Harry’s shoulderblades at the sound of his responding groan. 

Harry’s shifting his weight from foot to foot. and Liam can’t help jutting his hips until his swollen length slides against the dark heat of Harry’s asshole. Liam doesn’t try for penetration, just enjoys the glide of his cock against Harry’s warm wet skin, and the sounds the slip-jig motions are wrenching from low in Harry’s chest. He mouths messily at the rise of Harrys shoulder before turning his head to nip at the back of Harry’s neck, right at his hairline. 

That makes Harry moan loudly and jerk back into Liam’s chest, his arms still spread wide across the shower stall wall. His palms pushing against the smooth marble, Harry presses back into Liam’s eager, rough thrusts. Liam steadies himself, the slap of skin loud under the constant stream of water. He watches in fascination as the blood engorged tip of his cock slips repeatedly between Harry’s ass cheeks, and it’s the hottest thing Liam’s ever seen in his life. 

He shouts, a sound on the verge of pain, when Harry squeezes around Liam’s hard length. It knocks the breath from Liam. He slides down onto the shower stall floor, the shock of his orgasm making him grip onto Harry even tighter, dragging him down with him and almost crushing him where they sag against the dark stone wall. 

Come drips in thick ropes down Harry’s legs and across the backs of his thighs where he’s sprawled across Liam. The gleam of it and the swirl of the shower water is hypnotic, and Liam reaches out to trace across Harry`s thighs with slow, laboured movements.

Harry manages to get Liam back to his feet, but they’re both stunned and unsteady, dizzy from the heat and the force of their orgasms. They stand there, panting and pressed together almost painfully tight. Liam opens his mouth to say….something and his stomach growls loudly, making Harry throw back his head and laugh. 

Harry turns in his arms, his big hands tracing the defined shape of the muscles in Liam’s abs before he gently pats his belly. “Someone’s worked up an appetite, then,” he says teasingly, bussing a kiss to Liam’s blushing cheek. “Why don’t you finish up here whilst I go and get some things together for tea, yeah?” He kisses Liam again, turning fully into the spray and spreading his legs to wash away the sticky mix of come and soap that’s still clinging to him.

Liam watches dumbly, focusing on the incredibly beautiful stretch of Harry`s back and the dirty hot sight of him cleaning himself up “Oh, okay,” he finally says. He rests his open hand low on his belly, like he’s trying to quell any more noises of protest from his empty stomach.

Satisfied that he’s clean, Harry winds his arms around Liam’s neck and kisses him deeply. Eyes still closed and a blissed out smile on his face Harry says “I have missed this,” and sighs happily.

“Showering?” Liam asks, his brain still foggy from his orgasm and the feel of Harry’s hands on his skin.

“Kissing! Silly arse!” Harry smacks a loud kiss to Liam’s mouth, and an even louder swat to his bottom, before he turns and exits the shower stall, still laughing.

\+ + + +

A few minutes later, when Liam turns off the taps and steps out onto the plush bathmat, he hauls one of the thick towels from the heated rack and begins roughly drying himself off. He thinks that having to put on his bloodied jeans and torn shirt will ruin the shower he’s just had when he looks over at the counter top, and notices a pile of clothes. 

He smiles, grateful for Harry’s thoughtfulness, as he dons pants and socks and then hops into the soft blue jog bottoms. No one is around to see him, so Liam rubs his face into the worn cotton of the t-shirt Harry’s left him, inhaling Harry’s scent and smiling happily to himself. 

The past couple of days have been extremely strange to say the least, but it’s brought him here and he can’t be unhappy about that. He fidgets awkwardly with the t-shirt hem, and is surprised at how well Harry’s clothes fit. 

Swiping at the already frizzy mess of his hair with one of the towels Harry had left heating on the bar for him, Liam makes a face at his reflection in the mirror that runs almost the entire length of one wall. With a sigh, he heads out of the bathroom and through Harry’s bedroom. The bed has been made and Liam and Harry’s wrecked clothes are missing from where they’d dropped them all over the floor. Liam smiles at the thought of Harry tidying up, as he leaves the bedroom to see if he can trace his steps back through the enormous house to the kitchen.

Even if he couldn’t remember the way, the wonderful smells trailing up the stairs are hint enough what direction he should turn, and Liam trots down the stairs, his sock clad feet making no noise on the hardwood. He pauses at the kitchen doorway and traces his grin with his fingertips, trying not to laugh. 

Harry is standing at the stove, stirring several pans on the cooktop. He’s humming happily to himself, and shimmying his hips to his own wordless tune. He’s got a towel wound low around his hips and another wrapped turban style around his head. But what really makes the outfit is the apron he’s wearing. It’s pink and frilled and covered in cartoon dancing cupcakes. 

“Just get you some fruit to tack on here and you could sell bananas on telly,” Liam laughs as he comes up behind Harry, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder and pressing his palm against the back of Harry’s towel wrapped head. 

Harry snorts out a laugh and says, “Do love a banana,” and leans in to the way Liam’s arms are curving around his waist. 

“Who doesn’t?” Liam says earnestly, “If they don’t , then they’re not anyone I want to know.” He tickles his fingers across Harry’s hip bone, making Harry laugh.

Turning around and running his hands up Liam’s arms, Harry’s grin dimples his cheek and wrinkles his nose. “Look at your lovely curly hair!” he exclaims in delight as he wraps a hank of Liam’s hair around his index finger.”

Liam affects an unamused frown and says, “It’s a bit of a mess, really. Takes me ages to straighten it but…”

“I like it.” Harry smiles and resumes his aimless tracing of Liam’s shoulders. “Glad you found the clothes I left out for you.” He traces along the R and the O in the word Ramones emblazoned across Liam’s chest. “Look good on ya.”

Liam grunts and resumes his tickling of Harry’s hips and belly, “Yeah, thanks for that. The both of us sitting down to lunch in our towels would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?” He snorts at Harry’s affronted glare. When Harry turns back to the pans heating on the hob, Liam presses a kiss to the exposed nape of his neck and says, “You still owe me a new button up, by the way.”

“Go sit down, you.” Harry scolds. “There’s tea and toast on the table and I’ll plate this and bring it over in a jiff. Quit distracting me.” Harry elbows at Liam, trying to squirm away from the his teasing touch. He brandishes a spatula in what looks to Liam to be an adorable attempt at menace.

Liam scrapes the chair across the tile and plonks himself down at the chrome and glass table. He’s just scooping heaps of sugar into his mug when Harry comes over with one of the frying pans and a serving dish. “Good lord!” Harry exclaims, watching wide eyed as Liam fills his cup with tea and then reaches across to fill Harry’s. “Would you like some tea with your sugar, then?”

“Oi, you don’t criticize how a man takes his tea!” Liam scowls and purposely takes a gulp from his steaming mug. Harry laughs and neatly places half of the omelette he’s cooked onto Liam’s plate. He sets a dish of sausages on the table and encourages Liam to help himself. “This is bloody lush,” Liam enthuses, taking a healthy bite out of the piece of toast he’s slathered in butter.

Pleased, Harry smiles and ducks his head, “S’just eggs and sausages, Li.” He takes a sip of his tea and blinks slowly at Liam overtop the rim of his cup.

Cutting his omelette into bite sized pieces and slathering the sausages in brown sauce, Liam wipes at his lips with his wrist and says, “Yeah, but it’s not pot noodle thrice daily, now is it?’

“Suppose not. It’s nice to have someone to cook for, to be honest. Don’t get many visitors round for tea these days.” Harry ducks his head to hide his shy, pleased smile.

Liam grunts around his mouthful of food and bobs his head back and forth in a happy sort of chair dance that Harry finds adorable. “Yeah, well let me tell you it’s been a bit kippers for curtains round mine of late…” Liam pauses with his fork in mid-air as Harry scoots around the table, depositing himself in Liam’s lap. 

“God that’s lovely,” Harry mutters, squirming around before kissing Liam quickly on the mouth and straddling his hips. “Brum, brum brum,” he chants against Liam’s lips, licking the butter from his chin. “You’re lovely.”

Scowling, Liam sets his fork on his plate and puts his hands on Harry’s biceps, making a little space between them so he can see Harry’s face. His brows furrowed in a look of puzzled confusion Liam says, “Don’t poke fun! I can’t help my accent now can I?” He sounds defensive and he knows it, but a lifetime of dealing with people who have a nasty thing or two to say about his home town is hard to overcome.

Harry’s eyes are a sharp, clear green, and wide with distress, “Oh no! Liam I would never make fun. I think you’re lovely, truly. And you accent is rather hot, to be honest." Harry kisses him again, making his point, His tongue slicks along the seam of Liam’s lips and he curls his fingers gently at the back of Liam’s neck, cupping the tendons.

Just as he opens his mouth to return the kiss, Liam’s stomach growls loudly in protest. “Oh well then!” Harry laughs, and manages to untangle his long limbs from where he’s wound around Liam, returning to his side of the table. ”God forbid I get between a man and his scoff.”

“Sorry,” Liam smirks as he cuts up a sausage. “This really is bloody lush, Haz,” he mumbles around the mouthful he’s stuffed in.

Leaning back in his chair until his legs are stretched out full length and his ankle is bumping Liam’s, Harry’s smile widens in delight. “Haz?”

A pink flush burns Liam’s cheeks, “Erm, yes? Sorry. Habit. Give all my mates nicknames, don’t I? Bit silly I suppose.”

“Not silly at all,” Harry says and then softly adds “No one’s ever given me a nickname before,” as he lifts his mug to his lips, taking a slow sip of his hot tea. “I like it.” The corners of his eyes tilt up in amusement and his smile curves against his cup as he watches Liam return his smile, pleased. 

“Well, actually in my head I call you Hazza most times.” Liam swallows what he’s chewing and beams at Harry. 

They sit, staring stupidly wide-eyed and pleased at one another over top of their mugs. “So, Liam,” Harry says, setting his tea down and tracing the outline of moisture it creates on the table top, “You’ve heard my little tale of woe, but you’ve not told me much about you. Not even on our two dates!”

Raising an eyebrow, Liam says, “Well, weren’t much chance to talk over a movie or the band and then, well, you sort of dumped me.”

“Heeeeyyy,” Harry looks affronted for a moment before Liam starts to laugh, and Harry laughs too. “Tell me about home.” Harry says, pushing eggs around his plate with his fork and leaning his cheek on his palm, elbow dangerously close to the butter dish.

Liam jiggles his leg, ankle knocking into Harry’s, “Not much to tell really. Wolverhampton. Loads of factories. Loads of _closed_ factories. Dad’s on the dole. Mum’s working like a madwoman at the hospital, just counting down the days until the NHS make her redundant. Older sister number one-Nicola- only just escaped being a statistic by waiting until she’d finished secondary school to get up the pole. Older sister number two-Ruth,-did early leaving and got a job cleaning to help out round home.” Liam shrugs and suddenly looks terribly interested in cutting up his eggs and sausages and then shovelling a bit of both onto the back of his fork. 

Harry bites his lip, “And your friends? You’ve mates like, back home?”

“Spent most of my time at school trying not to have m’arse handed me, didn’t I? Couple good ‘uns though. They stayed back home. I asked them to come to London with me, “Liam shakes his head and his smile is sad, “but they wouldn’t have it. So now they just drink and fight and fuck, and wait for the dole office to open to queue up and get their cheques of a Wednesday.” He salutes with his tea, “Another generation of Lads born and bred.”

“But you did get out, you did leave. Liam, that’s so brave. To know what you want to and to go for it!”

Making a scrunchy, fussy face, Liam says, “To what end, I wonder most nights.”

“You’re ambitious and determined. That’s sexy as hell.” Liam’s eyes meet Harry’s again, and he has a closed off expression on his face, but he relaxes and manages a confused smile when he realises Harry is serious. 

“But yeah, it’s home and my mum and dad are amazing. They’ve always supported my wanting to sing. Dad used to drive me round to birthdays and care homes and the like so I could sing for people. They actually seemed pleased when I said I wanted to away to London, even though mum put in a good word for me to get a job at the hospital where I did my work experience. And my sisters are my best friends.” 

“They sound lovely, well they must be, if they’re your family. Your home.” Harry’s voice is soft and he reaches out to stroke his thumb across the top of Liam’s hand where it’s resting on the table.

“Yeah, but I’ve managed to meet a few good lads here, too. Best mates really. I’d love you to meet them. You’d probably get on really well with Zayn—he’s an artist, got a comic book coming out in the new year. Oh!” Liam takes Harry’s hand in his. “Oh listen to me, rabbiting on about my family and whatnot whilst you’re sat there…” Liam stops and frowns, “I’ve made you sad, again. I’m sorry.”

Harry shakes his head, the towel wrapped around his hair slipping to one side emphatically as he says, “No. Not sad. Happy. And maybe a little hopeful, really.” He squeezes Liam’s fingers and then returns to stroking his thumb across Liam’s hand. “I’d love to meet your friends.”

“Well, I’m glad. I’m glad I’ve met you, Harry.” Liam says seriously. He looks down at their joined hands and smiles at Harry’s soft _me too_ . He watches as Harry’s thumbnail scratches over the dark D tattooed near his thumb. “Have you…did you ever like…try to get a tattoo? Like how would that work, with your um…condition and all?”

Harry stops his thumb’s movement and bites his lip, smiling sheepishly. “Uh...yeah. My _condition_ he smirks at Liam who rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, “makes that kind of hard. Tried it, once.”

“And what happened?”

Withdrawing his hand from Liam’s, Harry flops his forearm onto the table. With his other hand he makes a gesture overtop his pale skin, plucking at the air and saying “bloop, bloop, bloop. My skin, like, rejected the ink—pushed it back out.”

Liam’s eyebrows raise to his hairline. “Oh my god. That’s amazing, that is. What did you tell the person doing the tattoo?”

“T’was a drunken privateer,” Harry laughs at the expression of disbelief on Liam’s face. “Told ‘em I had a skin condition. Then I legged it.” He guffaws loudly and then turns his attention back to his food.

Liam laughs, hands braced on the edge of the table and curling in on himself. “Amazing, Absolutely amazing. I can picture it, too. But like, I can’t even _imagine_ what all you’ve got up to in your erm...your life.”

Harry scowls fiercely and jabs at the food on his plate. “You don’t want to. You shouldn’t have to. The things I’ve see, and done. No one should have to imagine.”

“And yet, here you are, wanting so badly to lead a mortal life.” Liam leans over the table to brush gentle fingers to the bend of Harry’s elbow. “You still think people are good, don’t you?”

“I know they are.” Harry shakes the messy few curls that have escaped from his towel off his face, snapping out of his fugue. ”Good men will do horrible things to survive, Liam. A wise man once told me even the worst of us can be made to be good, again.” He bows his head and sits staring at his plate.

Liam nods and gets to his feet, coming around the table and wrapping his arms around Harry from behind. He carefully unwinds the towel still twisted over Harry’s hair, setting it on the kitchen floor. Running the damp strands between his widespread fingers, he presses his lips to the top of Harry’s head, inhaling the scent of him. “You’re a good person, Harry. You’re not the things you’ve done—have had to do. And you’re here now, and I’m here, and that’s all that matters at the moment, wouldn’t ya say?”

Harry relaxes back into Liam’s embrace, his hands balled into fists and pressing into his toweled thighs. Harry reaches up to squeeze at Liam’s forearm where it’s draped across his collarbones and says, “But now you've been stuck in the middle of my mess. And I don’t know how to keep you safe.”

“I’m not stuck. It’s my choice, Harry. You haven’t forced me into anything. I’m here because I want to be, because I need to be. You’ve been dealing with this on your own for far too long, and if it’s time to pay the fiddler, then we’ll do it together, yeah? We’ll keep each other safe. I’m not afraid.”

“You should be,” Harry answers.

“Are you?”

“Terrified.” Harry stands and walks out of the kitchen, leaving Liam gawping after him. 

\+ + + +

Liam stands, open mouthed and staring at the place Harry use to be. He should say something, but all that comes out is a small, confused sound of distress. For a heartbeat he thinks he should go after Harry, but the expression on Harry’s face had warned him otherwise. 

Instead, Liam collects the lunch dishes and with very little fumbling of drawers and cabinetry, finds the bin and scrapes the remains of their tea into it. He thinks about loading the dishwasher, but instead squeezes a dollop of washing up liquid into the basin and sets about cleaning up. It gives him something to do. Maybe Harry’s right. Maybe he should be scared, of what’s happened as much as what might happen. 

But, Liam’s never been the kind of person who can even imagine abstracts, never mind anything as far-fetched and difficult to wrap his brain around as this _Reckoning_ with Reverend August that Harry sees as inevitable. Liam is dogged and determine, and puts one foot in front of the other setting about the task at hand.

Tomorrow that might be a sword battle in downtown London, for all he knows. But right now it’s doing up the dishes and figuring out exactly what he said to make Harry so upset, and how to fix it. He places the last of the plates on the draining board and is just emptying the washing up bowl to have a go at the frying pans when he hears Harry walk back into the kitchen.

He’s changed into dark wash skinny jeans, a black loosely woven sweater and a grey beanie—curls springing free around his temples in protest. He’s wearing suede boots and an expression Liam could only call a scowl. “Look Harry, I’m…”

“Can you use a sword?” Harry interrupts, walking steadily towards Liam from the doorway.

Taking a breath, Liam wipes his hands on a tea towel and then sets it beside the sink. “Can I what?”

As the words leave his mouth, Harry’s hand comes from behind his back and he sends a sword, Ed’s katana, arching through the air towards Liam. Liam jumps back and the weapon clatters to the tiles at his feet. “Jesus! What?”

“I’ll take that as a no, then.” Harry smirks from where he’s cocked his hip against the kitchen table. He watches as Liam fumbles to pick up the sword, cursing under his breath when the razor sharp edge nicks his fingertips. 

“I can’t even. What are you asking me, Harry Styles?” Liam struggles to lift the sword, smearing blood on the carved bone handle before reaching for the discarded tea towel and wrapping it around his hand. 

Harry comes closer, carefully cradling Liam’s injured hand in his. “I need you to be able to protect yourself. I don’t think I have time to teach you how to use a sword proper-like…” Harry muses, taking the katana from Liam’s tentative grasp. 

“Don’t have time? Harry what’s happening—can you like, sense this _Reckoning_ thing?” Liam takes his hand back from Harry and tilts his head, trying to meet Harry’s eyes.

Hands hanging at his sides and studying the black and white houndstooth pattern of the kitchen tiles, Harry says, “I don’t know,” and shrugs, “maybe.”

“Maybe?” Liam’s voice is a little louder and a lot higher than he’d like.

“It feels like something is on the horizon, you know? And I just...I can’t let anything happen to you. You need to be able to defend yourself, at least a little.”

Liam finally gets it; Harry’s afraid—for him. He slides his wide palm around Harry’s waist, and pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “I’ve been boxing for years. Have done pretty well at holding my own, too. And, if it comes to it, I missed being an alternate on the Olympic track and field team by one- one- hundredth of a second.” He’s trying to be funny, but his words just make Harry frown more. 

“Yes, but if you get close enough to August to try boxing, he’ll kill you. He will. And you can’t outrun him. He won’t stop until you’re dead, because of me. Of that I am certain.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to make certain he doesn’t have the chance.” Liam says with an air of affected confidence he hopes is convincing.

Harry circles Liam’s wrist with his thumb and forefinger, “So, gun it is then.” Harry nods and leads Liam towards the hallway.

“Gun? Harry, what?” Liam drags his feet, his socks slipping across the hardwood of the hallway as Harry lugs him along, ignoring his questions and protests. The echo of Harry’s boot heels falls silent when they reach the end of the hall. “A lift? Are you Batman?”

Smiling, Harry says, “Yes, yes Liam I am absolutely Batman” he says the last of the sentence in a bad Christian Bale impression, and laughing, inserts a key, calling the lift.

“Harry I’ve never fired a gun in my life. I can’t _shoot_ people.” Liam bites his bottom lip and fidgets his hands into the pockets of his joggers.

The lift doors open, and Harry once more grasps Liam by the wrist, this time towing him down a wide concrete corridor. “That’s good—August isn’t people. And he’s the only one you might have to protect yourself from. ”He leaves Liam standing stupidly, blinking and trying to get his bearings as Harry flicks a switch for the harsh overhead florescent lighting. 

Trust Harry to have a gun range in his basement. At the other end of the room are paper targets with black outlines of a man that Liam has only ever seen on the television dramas Niall is so keen on. Harry takes out the keys again, opening a cabinet and taking out a pistol and a box. Liam raises his hands, shaking his head in protest. “C’mon Li. Point and shoot, just like a camera.” 

“Ha ha,” Liam mincingly takes the gun by the grip,keeping it as far away from himself as possible.

“Fox Mulder used one just like this, and he did alright.” Harry smirks and takes the gun back from him, opening the box and filling the clip with bullets. 

Liam watches, and he has to admit there’s something intriguing and more than a little attractive about the sure, calm way Harry handles the gun. “I feel like I need to point out to you that Fox Mulder isn’t real.”

“You’ll be just fine. Shall I show you?” Harry raises an eyebrow in question.

Spreading his arms wide, Liam says, “Lead on. Although, I’m not quite sure I understand—this Reverend August fellow is like you, right?”

“No,” Harry says emphatically. “He may be immortal by we are _not_ the same.” He flicks off the safety and positions his feet along one side of a black line painted on the floor.

“Sure, sure,” Liam pats Harry’s arm—nervous at the cool anger in his voice. “I just meant, if I were to shoot him, I can’t possibly kill him so…”

“You’ll absolutely slow him down, if you’ve put enough bullets in him, and that might be all I need to finish him off.” Harry’s mouth is an expressionless line, and he breaths out heavily, nostrils flaring. “Now pay attention. It’s quite simple really; spread your feet, site your target, aim, squeeze the trigger.” 

After each step Harry demonstrates with exaggerated care, glancing sideways to make sure Liam is paying attention. Liam is surprised at how little noise the bullet makes as it leaves the gun. He blinks, completely unsurprised when the bullet pierces the paper target, dead centre. “Your turn,” Harry smirks and hands over the pistol.

Liam swallows and grips the gun in one hand and then with both, wiping his sweating palms on his jog bottoms. “Okay,” he says breathy with nerves. 

He jumps when Harry comes to stand close behind him, extending his arms and Liam’s out in front of them. “Relax,” he digs his chin into the meat of Liam’s shoulder, whispering in his ear. Liam breathes out a few breaths, and he can feel the curve of Harry’s smile against his skin. “Spread your legs,” Harry knees at the back of Liam’s thighs and Liam obediently does as told. “Site your target,” Harry drags his hand up Liam’s arms, and sets his fingertips gently at Liam’s jaw, tipping his face forward, towards the target. “Squeeze the trigger,” Harry’s hands are back on Liam’s and the gun fires, making Liam jump a little. 

Liam’s bullet lodges in the cinderblocks near where the wall meets the ceiling. “Err…” 

“It helps to keep your eyes open, love.” Harry smacks a kiss to Liam’s cheek. “Do it again.”

“Oh shut it. You make me nervous, all touching me and erm...things.” Liam licks his lips and blushes, shifting uncomfortably. He’s surprised at the realization of how hot this is, and how turned on he’s getting. “Just, go stand over there,” he waves at the wall behind him, “or something will you?” 

Harry barks out a laugh that bounces off the concrete but, with a pat to Liam’s shoulder he does as asked. Muttering under his breath, Liam affects the steps that Harry had taught him, standing poised with the gun pointing at the target. Seconds tick by and Harry says, “Li? You quite alright then?”

Liam whines and rolls his shoulders, “You’re like...staring at me, and your breathing is really loud and I just…it’s a bit difficult to concentrate.” He waves the gun around as he talks.

“Whoa whoa, the safety’s off!” Harry starts towards Liam and then stops. “You can do it Liam. You can do anything you set your mind too, I know it. Just, focus, okay? I promise I’ll...breathe less loudly,” He smirks.

Scraping his teeth across his bottom lip, Liam huffs out a breath and turns back towards the target. He repeats the steps Harry’s shown him and manages to fire the pistol. This bullet at least hits the target this time, clipping the outline of the man in the head. “Yay!!!” Harry cheers loudly. He abruptly stops when Liam turns around, giving Harry a disgruntled glare. “Just keep going, you’ll get it. The magazine is full; ten rounds. And there are heaps of bullets should you need to reload.”

Liam’s shoulders slump but he turns back to the target. It doesn’t take him the entire clip, but he eventually does hit the target, not as dead centre as Harry had, but enough that Harry comes over and takes the gun from his grip. Turning Liam away from where he’s staring blankly at the shredded target, Harry gathers him into a hug while Liam trembles. “You did so well, Liam. So well. Just remember to put the safety back on, as I’ve become terribly fond of your pretty face.”

Liam rests his forehead against Harry’s neck, breathing into the sensation of Harry’s fingers stroking gently against his back. He doesn’t laugh at Harry’s joke. In a small voice he asks, “Can we do something fun now, please?”

“Of course,” Harry says softly. He picks up the box of bullets and refills the clip before sliding it home.

“Will you come somewhere with me?” Liam looks up, still shaking.

His eyes are so wide and so brown the only thing Harry can say is “Yes.” 

It’s Liam who leads them back through the hallway to the lift, his fingers tangled with Harry’s. “You’ll be safe, I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t possibly keep.” Harry says, not unkindly.

Tongue tracing across his dry lips, Liam says, “No I just meant the place we’re going, it used to be an abbey and that’s like, church-ish, yeah?”

“Yeah?” Harry says, curious. They stop in the hallway and Liam notices the gun Harry’s still got casually held in his free hand.

“What ya doing with that?” Liam points. 

Wrestling his hand free, Harry turns Liam a little and, bunching the elastic waistband of the jogging bottoms Liam’s wearing asks, “You’re right handed, yeah?” Liam nods and Harry tucks the hand gun into the elastic, the warm metal pressing into the skin at the left side of Liam’s lower back. Liam watches in silence as Harry smooths his borrowed t-shirt back down into place and pat’s his hip. “All ready now.”

“Am I?” Liam stares at Harry as they wait for the lift. He doesn’t say anything, just meets Harry’s eyes and won’t look away. He can’t help but feel his life has changed in ways he could never have imagined the first time Harry walked through the bookshop doors: and that he’s changed. Liam wonders about all the years Harry’s lived, and at all the violence he’s seen that a gun and a sword are so common place and necessary. He hopes he never feels that way. The weight of the pistol drags him down, making everything Harry’s told him all too real.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, brushing his lips briefly across Liam’s as they ride back up to the main floor.

Liam kisses back, harder, an almost desperate press of their mouths and he leans into Harry, “Not your fault I’m stubborn and won’t go away.” 

Harry smiles sadly, shaking his head so his curls bounce wildly from where his beanie is askew, and then stops in the long hallway, gently picking up his sword from its wall rack. He mutters something under his breath, voice soft and eyes far away in a prayer or an oath before he straps the weapon across his back. “So, this abbey—why are we going there and how is it fun?”

They continue on to the kitchen where Harry retrieves his trenchcoat and Liam’s hoodie. He leans against the counter watching as Liam ties on his trainers. “Oh, it’s my local-The Abbey.” Liam looks up at Harry from where he’s bent over lacing up his shoes. “My friends—not just Aiden and Matt, but Zayn and Niall too-- play there of a Saturday, after pub quiz. I do the sound for them, most times end up on the stage with them m’self.” 

“That does sound fun. I’d love to meet your friends.” Harry takes Liam’s hand, and, arms swinging, they set out scrambling into Harry’s Range Rover and back across the city to Paddington. Parking in front of Liam’s apartment building, they walk down the street hand in hand.

It occurs to Liam that what he’d previously thought of as Harry’s lack of interest in what he’s saying, or Harry’s rather flaky inability to follow a conversation in public is actually a result of Harry constantly scanning his surroundings for danger. They don’t say much but Liam notices the way that Harry’s shoulders tense and his gate is careful as his eyes pan the sprawling street in front of them, falling on each and every person in turn and focusing on all the dark corners the streetlamps can’t reach.  
\+ + + +

They arrive at the pub, an actual converted abbey, and golden light spills through the windows into the overcast London afternoon. Liam holds open the door and a burst of laughter and tinny juke box R&B swirls around them. Liam leads Harry in the direction of the booth that his group of friends have come to call theirs—and walks straight into Zayn.

A pint of Guinness in one hand and cradling four tins of Carling to his chest with the other, Zayn’s amber eyes go wide and his muttered curses fade away when he realises it’s Liam whose jostled him. “Bloody hell,” Zayn says disbelievingly.

His dark eyes go even wider when he looks down between Harry and Liam and at their joined hands, then back up to where an angry red love bite is peeking out just above the collar of Liam’s t-shirt. “And here we thought you were off dead in a ditch somewheres and the reality of it is you were off having a bit of afternoon delight.” He scowls heavily at the both of them and huffs out, “Could you not at the very least have rung me to tell me you’d got off with a bloke and didn’t have head injury from your crash?”

Harry blinks at Zayn and Liam says, “Uh, Zayn…this is Harry. Harry _Styles_ ,” and the three of them weave through the crowd at the bar and back towards their booth.

“Oh!” Zayn’s eyebrows shoot up to the impressive quiff at his hairline. “That so, then? Perhaps you _do_ have head injury.” He scowls at Liam. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” Harry extends his hand. Zayn only glares at it icily from behind the thick black frames of his glasses, and uses his chin to motion at his full hands. 

Liam takes the pint and places it in front on Niall once they reach the booth. Zayn sets about distributing the tins of lager to the rest of the crew, and takes a seat beside Niall. He sucks his teeth as Niall attempts to show his appreciation for his beer by running his fingers through Zayn’s rather impressive quiff. 

Harry finally takes his hand back from where it’s hanging in the air, shrugging and shoving it into his pocket.

“Harry this is my best mate, Zayn.” Liam’s voice is high and a little nervous as he tries to be heard over the crowd. Harry waves at Zayn, and Liam continues around the table with the introductions, “And this is Nick, whom I guess you know from the shop, yeah?” both Harry and Nick nod.

A smirk tilting up the corners of his mouth, Nick asks Liam, “The Ramones? Really? Why Li, have you abandoned your love of Usher and embraced the indie side?”

Liam’s eyebrows convey his confusion as he and Harry slip into the booth. Then looking down at the name emblazoned on his shirt he says, “Oh, erm, we’ll it’s Harry’s t-shirt, actually. He was kind enough to help me out after my…you know…the…the accident I had. Last night.” 

“Yes, speaking of; What the hell have you done to my brand new sports car, you young devil?” Nick scowls at Liam.

“Don’t matter much, do it? Can’t Daddy Grimshaw buy you like, ten new Mercs?” Zayn scowls at Nick and pops the tab on his lager.

Harry’s face falls in confusion for a moment but, he pastes his most charming smile on and says, “It’s in the shop and will be good as new in no time. Liam was quite brave, swerving as he did to avoid hitting that poor dog in the storm last night.” Liam gapes a little at the ease with which Harry spins an entirely untrue tale.

“Yes I strongly suspect Young Liam would swerve into oncoming traffic to prevent the death of so much as a snail.” Nick quips dryly, saluting his friends and taking a gulp of his beer.

“Oi, you two…pay attention,” Nick elbows the dark haired man beside him, who is concentrating mostly on shoving his tongue into the mouth of the scraggily bearded guy beside him. “These ones are Aiden and Matt. I’d tell you which is which but it doesn’t matter as they're pretty much a matched set. They’ve soon got to come up for air and go host the pub quiz in a mo.” Nick rolls his eyes and flaps his hand at the couple who pay Nick and everyone else no notice at all. Harry beams at them and nuzzles his head into Liam’s shoulder.

Pressing a kiss to Harry’s temple and stroking his arm Liam says, “Last, but not least, this is ol’ Nialler.”

“Constable Horan,” Harry tips his head towards Niall, who is deeply focused on gulping down his pint. 

“Good to see you again, Harry.” Niall gasps out, after swallowing his mouthful of stout. He tips the bill of his snapback at Liam and Harry, smiling as a shock of blond hair falls into his eyes.

“Wait, you two know each other?” Liam blinks from Harry to Niall. Zayn looks equally confused.

Harry opens his mouth to speak and Niall interrupts, “Sure, ya remember those weird murders? The ones with the--” Niall mimes a finger across his neck and sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth for emphasis. “Someone at the university recommended your Harry here as someone who’s a bit of an expert on old swords and stuff who might have some idea of the murder weapon, so…” Niall shrugs and steals a palm full of crisps from Nick’s packet. 

“It never occurred to you all the times Li spent moaning about Harry fucking Styles’ perfect face and green eyes and amazing curly hair that he was the same bloody Harry?” Zayn hooks a thumb at Harry and looks at Niall like he’s got lobsters crawling out of his ears. Liam is turning pinker and pinker as Zayn talks. But Harry just looks at him with an expression of fondness and rests his head on his shoulder.

Niall shrugs and smiles, “S’lots of Harrys in London, buddy.” He looks forlornly at his empty pint glass and then raises it in the air, shaking it at the harried barmaid who rolls her eyes.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t much help.” Harry says softly. “Are you any closer to solving the case?” 

“Nah,” Niall burps and wipes his mouth across the sleeve of his hoodie, “s’weird shite, that is.”

Zayn is just about to say something when the barmaid shouts, “Nialler! Come get yer own pint, lad. I’m not going to be run off my feet all night wearing a path to your booth.”

Niall laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard in his life. “Li, Harry, you want anything?” he climbs over Zayn and gets to his feet.

“Nah, cheers.” Liam replies just as Harry says, “Tin of lager would be lovely, thanks.” 

Niall salutes, a hand held briefly to the bill of his snapback, then heads off to the bar to collect their drinks. “You okay?” Liam asks in a low voice against Harry’s ear. 

Nuzzling into Liam’s touch, Harry’s smile is soft and beatific as he says, “Yeah, you were right, about this place I mean. Feels…”

“Safe?” Harry nods as Liam finishes his sentence and they smile at one another.

“Well, seems last night’s book delivery service had some rather pleasant side effects, hey lads?” Nick smiles over top of his lager and waggles his eyebrows at Liam who immediately gets pink in the cheeks.

Liam mutters non-commitally as Harry chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, Li. What gives? You’ve been a mard arse for weeks now, and suddenly you and this tosser here are Maiden Part Two after he’s broken your heart…”

“Zayn, don’t let’s start, all right?” Liam scowls and starts to shred the edges of a beer mat on the table in front of him.

“No, it’s fine,” Harry squeezes at Liam’s forearm where it’s resting on the table. “I know I hurt Liam. Believe me I could not be more sorry. We’ve talked and worked things out a bit…”

Zayn snorts and stares pointedly at the love bites on Liam’s throat, “So it seems.”

Harry traces Zayn’s line of vision and smirks, dimpling his cheeks. “Yes, our friendship has…blossomed, like a flower.” He slowly uncurls his fist so his fingers spread like petals.

“Flowers die,” Zayn snaps, raising an eyebrow in challenge. 

Liam sucks in a shocked breath, “Zayn, don’t be a twat. For once can you just…”

Aiden and Matt look at each other, embarrassed, when Nick says, “Well lads, time to get your show on the road, yeah? I believe your respective tonsils have been duly warmed up.” 

“Yes!” Aiden speaks for the first time since Liam and Harry joined them. “Loves a pub show,” Matt mumbles as they crawl over Nick and to the stage.

“No it’s fine, Liam. Really, it’s good you have someone so protective of you.” Harry squeezes Liam’s hand again, unconsciously running the pad of this thumb over Liam’s _D_ tattoo—already a habit.

Niall comes back, slightly stung from his unsuccessful _chat up the barmaid_ mission, and plunks down Harry’s lager. “One day she will realise that she is the girl of my dreams, and I’m not just playin’.” he heaves a misty sigh. “Any road up, shift yer arse Grimmy,” he plunks himself down in the spot recently vacated by Aiden and Matt, finishing his old pint and taking a deep draught from the new. “Up the lads!” he shouts towards the stage where his friends are attempting to sort out the PA so they can start the pub quiz. “Ehm, seems I missed something in my quest to convince Gloria that she has my heart now and forever, no matter what them punters have to say about it?” He takes in the serious expressions on Liam and Zayn’s faces and sees Harry’s hand, gripping white-knuckle tight to Liam’s.

“Zayn and I were just discussing the fragility of life, weren’t we? I think the fact that everything dies, eventually, makes life worth living for exactly that reason. Nothing is permanent. But, every day is amazing. Don’t you think? ” Harry says all in a rush and it might be the most words Liam has ever heard him say without taking a breath. He raises their joined hands and kisses across Harry’s knuckles, glaring at Zayn and daring him to say something.

Niall blinks, sets his pint down, licks the foam from his top lip and says, “Sounds like the kind of philosophical bollocks that give Zayner a stiff mick. Ehm, I mean, YOLO?”

Nick throws his head back and laughs, “Well said ol’son. Well said.” 

Any further discussion is brought to a halt by Matt tapping his microphone, “Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and those yobs at booth fourteen.” Everyone laughs and Niall shoots two fingers in the direction of the stage. “Welcome to the Abbey’s weekly Pub Quiz, hosted by yours truly,” Matt motions between Aiden, who smacks a kiss to his stubbly cheek, and himself, “also known as Maiden.” Niall wolf whistles and Nick applauds loudly.

“If you haven’t registered your team with the lovely Gloria,” Aiden points to the barmaid who waves without looking up from where she’s drawing a pint of Smithwick’s, “it is, alas too late at the mo for tonight’s quiz, but if you are dead set on participating, please proceed to booth fourteen as those lads could use all the assistance you can spare them.” Booth fourteen, including Harry, boo loudly and the entire pub laughs. “Even if Zayn fancies he’s got an impressive knowledge of the Romantic poets that’s enough to win.”

“Especially because Zayn fancies he’s got an impressive knowledge of the Romantic poets that’s enough to win,” Matt adds, blowing a kiss at Zayn and making Aiden scowl and Zayn cross his arms over his chest and sink into the padded back of the booth, wrapping his ugly cardigan tighter around his thin frame.

“Right gents, huddle up,” Nick leans over the table, “Zayn’s got lit covered, Liam’s got music covered, Niall’s got sport, I of course have a keen knowledge and intellect to apply to anything you lot might not know about what matters most-namely pop culture and current events. Styles, what do you bring to the picnic?”

Zayn, still folded back in on himself and glowering says, “Not much call for knowing what kind of sword can lob off a man’s head in one go, or such like.”

“I, ehm…” Harry licks his lips, simultaneously nervous and amused by the seriousness with which those around the table are taking the quiz. “Politics and history, perhaps?” he finally says.

“Just please god let there be no maths questions this time round.” Liam mutters.

“Amen,” everyone shouts in unison, doing some weird hand gesture, and muttering under their breaths, before taking long swallows of their beers, making Harry laugh.

Liam elbows him, “No laughing during Pub Quiz. One Direction are serious business, good sir,” he says, smiling.

“One Direction?” Harry raises an eyebrow, slowly sipping from his tin of lager.

“Our Pub Quiz team name,” Liam supplies, taking Harry’s hand and setting their joined hands on the bench seat between them.

Zayn curls possessively around the controller each table has been provided, “Yeah, see?” he points at the screen behind Matt and Aiden’s heads, where the team names appear in a neat column on the left hand side.

“Also the name of our singing group,” Niall nods sagely. “You gonna get up on stage and sing a few with us Harry? After we crush the competition in this little friendly, that is.”

Before Harry can answer, Nick interrupts, “You’re a fifth pint into your cups, boyo. If you don’t pace yourself we’re going to have a nasty repeat of last month where you got up on stage and insisted on singing nothing but the bloody Derby County song.”

Needing little encouragement, Niall raises both arms above his head, one hand clinging to his Guinness, and starts to shout “Fal-de-ral, fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day.” Only to have Zayn clamp a hand over his mouth and hiss “Jesus, Nialler, stifle, they’re about to read the first question.” And Harry and Liam curl into each other, clutching their bellies and laughing.

The quiz progresses quickly, and much to the shock of everyone but Liam, Harry is an excellent anchor, correctly answering more than his fair share of questions on a wide range of topics. “Guess if you live long enough you know a bit about everything hrm?” Liam whispers into Harry’s ear after he gets the correct answer on a particularly convoluted question about royal succession and the War of the Roses. Harry laughs and nods, biting his lip. They narrowly miss a spot in the semi-finals when, much to his enduring horror, Niall mis-speaks and answers City instead of United on a Premiere League question and Zayn dutifully types it in. 

All night Liam has been keenly aware of Harry, warm and pressed against him from shoulder to thigh. Every time one of them moves they press more firmly into the other. Liam’s never been one for overt public displays of affection, preferring to leave that to Matt and Aiden. But under the table his hand has been on Harry’s thigh for most of the quiz and their feet have been tangled together the whole time. Harry seems to be less concerned about what others think and he occasionally presses a kiss to Liam’s cheek or temple, and spends large amounts of time resting his head against Liam’s shoulder, nursing his Carling.

Harry is warm and affectionate, and smells good, and Liam had spent the better part of the morning in bed with him having the best sex of his life, so far. But Liam is convinced he could do better. And he wants to try, now. “You up for some live band karaoke or do you want to head out and do…something else?” Liam nuzzles his nose against Harry’s, pitching his voice low.

“Something…fun?” Harry waggles his eyebrows and even Niall laughs. 

“Good lord mate, get a room!” Zayn scowls at the pair of them.

Liam takes some notes from his wallet and tosses them onto the table. “Already got one,” he says, shifting out of the booth, “Right round the corner in fact.” 

“Best take this, then,” Nick plucks Liam’s mobile out of his pocket and slides it across the polished wooden surface of booth’s table. Liam pocket’s the phone and takes Harry’s hand, drawing him to his feet even as Harry is swallowing the last of his drink.

“Night you two!” Aiden calls enthusiastically from the stage. Liam doesn’t look back, just waves a hand in the air, focused on getting out of the pub.

Harry cackles as Liam purposefully strides towards the pub door, but trots happily behind Liam as he weaves through the crowd. Liam bangs out the heavy oak door and comes to a sudden stop in the middle of a handful of smokers. Harry’s still laughing when Liam reels him in by the belt of his trenchcoat and presses their lips together. “Heya,” Harry says softly, running his hands up Liam’s back and scratching his fingertips through the softly curling strands of his hair. He opens his mouth to Liam’s tongue, and makes a happy noise when Liam lets go of the raincoat belt and hauls Harry flush against him by his hips. 

They break apart and Liam inclines his head up the road, “Shall we?”

“Yes, we shall,” Harry says, grinning enthusiastically as he links his elbow through Liam’s and they head up the block to Liam’s flat. 

Harry’s mood seems to have lost some of the seriousness and hesitation that had hung heavy between them before they got to the pub. Liam doesn’t know if he has the safety of the Abbey or the silliness of his friends to thank, but he feels better. “I’m sorry about Zayn,” Liam says, bouncing his hip off Harry’s as they walk along in the growing dark of late afternoon.

“No, please don’t be.” Harry bites his lip and then drags his tongue across the marks, looking up at Liam through the thick fall of his fringe over his eyes.. “I get it, I really do. I think it’s wonderful you have friends who love you so; who are genuinely concerned about you. And Zayn is your best mate, I’m sure you’ve told him all about how I broke your heart…”

Liam makes a displeased noise and scowls. “No…”

Harry just smiles and hip bumps Liam back, “I did. I broke my own heart a little, too. But I had my reasons. You know that but Zayn doesn’t. He‘s only acting on the information about me he’s got.”

“Are you always this nice when people are so shit to you?” Liam asks as they slow down, approaching Liam’s building.

Tilting his head back, Harry barks out a laugh and says, “Not hardly,” then kisses Liam, pressing his mouth to first one corner of his lips, then the other, before licking the point of his tongue across the seam of Liam’s mouth, the barest of teasing touches.

“Mmm,” Liam chases the kiss when Harry tilts back. “Danielle’s taken Brit til Monday so you’ll have my undivided attention…” Liam waggles his eyebrows and squeezes Harry’s waist, making him laugh and Liam’s eyes light up, delighted at the ability to make Harry sound so happy and carefree.

“Oh, wait. Danielle?” Harry’s green eyes are wide and bright under the amber glow of the street lamp. He traces his thumb over the tattoo on Liam’s hand.

Ducking his head, Liam says, “Uh, yeah. I moved out…downstairs. I think we’re finally getting to be friends, again.”

“That must be hard, seeing her so often, only knowing she no longer has feelings for you?” Harry hugs Liam.

Liam looks at his trainers, and kicks a pebble across the pavement. “You know, actually I think not seeing her would be harder. “ He winces when he looks at Harry, thinking about Louis. “At least this way I know she’s alright. I get to know that even if I can’t make her happy, even if I’m not the one for her, that she’s is happy and will find someone who loves her the way she needs them to.”

With an expression that wavers between fond and sad, Harry strokes his hand over the tendon in Liam’s neck, thumb resting on his birth mark. “Liam,” he says softly, brushing his lips along the line of Liam’s jaw, “You’re not responsible for other people’s happiness, not at your own expense.”

“It isn’t like that—promise. I just…haven’t really been ready to move on, like. But I think now, I think maybe I am?” He shifts under Harry’s attentions, tilting his head and turning to meet the wide pink of Harry’s mouth. 

They trade kisses in the flood of the lamplight smack in the middle of the pavement leading to Liam’s apartment. Liam loops his arms around Harry’s waist while Harry’s large warm hands pet across the frizzy strands of Liam’s hair. “C’mon,“ Harry says quietly. He drags on Liam’s fingertips, heading towards his Range Rover.

“But…no dog, no responsibility til Monday. My flat’s just there,” Liam points with his free hand. 

Harry smiles, fishing the keys out of his pocket and clicking to unlock the doors, “I’ve only just thought we should go get your Vespa.”

“Now?” Liam is confused and a little frustrated. And then what Harry’s said sinks in, “Oh, god. You saw me? On the Vespa?”

“Mmm hmm,” Harry hums, smiling. He opens the driver side door and climbs behind the wheel, “Only just when you pulled in behind me at the warehouse. Pink is your colour.”

“Oh god,” Liam pauses after opening the door, putting his head in his hands. “It’s my sister’s. She’s lent it me til I can afford a car. Which, given what Mr. Cowell calls a salary might be the other side of never.”

The engine purrs and Harry laughs again, his eyelashes fluttering against the fullness of his cheeks, “It’s adorable. Much like someone I know,” he smirks and leans across the console, pecking a kiss to the tip of Liam’s nose. “I’ve never shagged on the back of a Vespa,” he muses.

“Oh god,” Liam says again, but this time he’s laughing. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Little bit,” Harry shrugs good naturedly, pressing buttons on the radio trying to find something decent before he gives up and hits CD. 

Over the noise of the Lumineers, Liam says, affronted, “You’re not supposed to agree with me when I call you ridiculous!”

“Why not?” Harry steers the car out from the side street, palming at the wheel and smiling his dimpled smile. “I think that a person’s willingness to embrace his own ridiculousness is an important quality to have.”

“Do you now?” Liam curls his palms overtop of his bent knees, rubbing against the soft jersey of the jogging bottoms. “So, what about me? Have I embraced my own ridiculousness or whatever it is you’re on about?”

Harry flicks his signal and smoothly changes lanes, “Absolutely,” he says with great conviction. He tugs his beanie a little more snugly onto his head. “It’s dead sexy, man.”

“Yup, you’ve gone completely barmy, I tell you what. Must have been hit in the gob one too many times?” Liam shakes his head in mock sadness and they both laugh. 

Harry reaches across to take Liam’s hand and they head out into the snarl of Saturday night traffic, singing along to the songs on Harry’s mixed CD and laughing as they recap the events at the pub. “I’m glad you seem to know where you’re going. I was so intent on following you I’ve not got a clue how to find that warehouse again. There are so many and they all look the same.”

“I think I shall always remember it,” Harry says softly and Liam is jerked out of the normalcy of Saturday at the pub with the lads, and back into the sad, fantastic events of Harry’s life and all Liam’s seen in the past twenty-four hours. He doesn’t say anything to Harry, just squeezes his hand as they continue on their trip in burdened silence, acutely aware of the gun pressing into his lower back.

As promised, Harry has no problem finding the warehouse, and he slows to a crawl along the lot, looking for Liam’s scooter. Luckily it’s just as Liam left it and they both hop out of the Range Rover. “So, shall I ride it back to mine?” Liam stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks back onto his heels.

Harry scratches at his hair under his beanie and says, “Well, I reckon it’ll fit in the boot of my car,” he walks over to Liam, resting a hand low at the base of Liam’s spine, “Then we can go back and have this fun you’ve been promising.” He smirks as Liam kisses him and then says, “C’mon, give us a hand getting this thing up.” They wheel the Vespa over and heft it into the boot of the car without much trouble. As Liam slams the hatch and is just about to make some smart comment, Harry’s head snaps up and his eyes narrow.

“Hazza, what?” Liam frowns when he’s shoved protectively behind Harry.

“Liam, get in the car!” Harry shouts. He doesn’t look to check on Liam, just reaches beneath his trenchcoat and frees the blade he’s hidden there with a metallic snick, ready to strike.

Blinking into the semi-dark, Liam’s confusion is replaced by surprise. Standing no more than a few metres from the car is the largest man Liam has ever seen: August. This is not the doomsday preacher with the sunny, pasted on smile Liam has seen grinning manically from the sides of buses. He is so large as to blot out any light shining from the river and so dark that he’s absorbing light as well. “Little boy,” he says, and his voice shakes the ground beneath their feet, “I have found you.”

“Didn’t know I was meant to be hiding,” Harry says, his voice high and breathy, swallowed by the wind. His sword never wavers and he steps towards his enemy. “I see you’ve come solo tonight; left the minions at home. How kind of you. I’m sure my friends, and the innocents you had yours slaughter would have appreciated such luxuries.”

August laughs, and it’s like a murder of crows taking flight; a squawking horrible thing. “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” He replies. He reaches behind him for his own sword, twice the length and width of Harry’s weapon, making it look like a child’s toy.

“Do not speak of God!” Harry shouts into the rising wind. “You know nothing of the God you pervert. And He has forsaken me long ago. This is between you and I!” Harry raises his sword in an arch, standing  
his ground. “There is no room for God here.”

Spurred out of his paralysis, Liam reaches for the gun he’s still got tucked into the waistband of his jog bottoms, and promptly drops it onto the blacktop. August turns his head slowly and his eyes narrow, like a predator scenting its prey. “Liam please! Please, just get in the car.” Harry shifts sharply to the right, putting himself between Liam and August.

“No! I won’t leave you!” Liam crouches down and scoops up the pistol, grasping it in his shaking hands.

“Liam! Please! If you lo…Just get in the car! Go!” Harry is stepping back, closer to the Range Rover and to Liam and August laughs again, making Liam’s skin crawl.

“No!” Liam shouts again over the rising wind, and the echo of thunder in the distance.

If he wanted to, August could charge now and have them both dead before they knew what had hit them, Liam is quite sure. But it’s a game to him, one he is clearly enjoying. “Scared little boy,” he says tutt-tutting under his breath. “When last we met you were begging me to take your head.”

Liam’s heart is hammering in his chest and he blinks, wondering why Harry chose to leave out _that_ part of his story. Harry tightens his grip on his sword, twisting his wrist and making the rubies and sapphires in the wate horse that curved around the pommel shine in the low light. “You killed my love.” Harry’s chest rises and falls rapidly with the labour of his breathing.

August makes a disgusted sound, low in the back of his throat. He sets the point of his blade into the dirt, leaning on the hilt, “Love,” he spits out. “Such a puny insignificant _human_ obsession. You never wanted to embrace what you are, did you little boy? Squandered your gifts in the pursuits of useless humanity. Refused to see the power that could be yours—“

“I have never wanted this burden.” Harry answers, shoulders slumping. “Power—you mean fear. Having many fear me, craving their fear, that is you. Not me. Not. Me.” Harry takes his chance and lunges towards August, catching him off guard and landing a glancing blow across his chest. August howls, more in outrage than in pain, and, grabbing up his sword, he thrusts back, making Harry stumble. 

A hard rain starts as Harry and August round the side of the warehouse, leaving Liam gawping and breathing hard. He stares down at his hands and notices the gun. It had never even occurred to him to try and use it. Licking his lips, Liam flicks off the safety and, trainers slipping in the forming puddles, runs off to find Harry. 

It’s not difficult to find them, the clash of steel on steel is clearly audible over the hiss of rain, wind, and thunder. Liam pants, trying to catch his breath as he watches Harry and August locked in their horrible parody of a dance. For all August is large and powerful, Harry is wiry and light on his feet. He easily dodges the swing of the terrifying blade. But, he can’t get close enough to land any strikes of his own. The pair tumble along the bridge footpath, slipping and splashing in the rain. Harry bobbles, losing his footing and August takes the opportunity to slam the point of his bent elbow into Harry’s throat, before cracking him over the head with the hilt of his sword. 

Liam looks on in horror as Harry falls forward. Without forethought or hesitation, Liam raises the handgun and squeezes the trigger four times in rapid succession. August twists and shudders as each bullet lodges, contorting like a ragdoll. Harry stands, flicking his wet hair out of his face, and raising his sword. “Harry!” Liam shouts, but he’s too late. August overbalances, snagging at Harry’s trenchcoat belt, and the pair of them pitch over the bridge and into the fetid waters below.

“No! Harry!” Liam's scream fills the rain battered street. He runs as fast as he can to the bridge railing, staring down into the murky, churning water, scanning from shore to shore. “Oh thank god,” he whispers, looking down. Harry is clinging, one handed to one of the bridge’s metal buttresses. 

Scrambling, Liam leans as far over the railing as he can, taking Harry’s hand in his and yanking him up. “You’re alright, Hazza, I’ve got you now,” he yells over the storm.

Harry braces his feet against the bridge and clasps hard to Liam’s hand. Eyes wide in the gloom, Harry pants and says, “Sometimes I wish you’d have just let me break your heart,” he shouts over the railing at Liam.

Liam smiles, panting. “I know. But I couldn’t. I can’t. I won’t let you go.”

“I know,” Harry says, still hanging off the edge of the bridge. Liam attempts to lift him back to safety with one final strain. “I’m sorry,” Harry says, staring into Liam’s eyes. He unwinds his fingers from Liam’s and Liam has no choice but to watch as Harry plummets into the river.

“Harry!” Liam screams over and over , his voice swallowed by the wind and thunder. He runs back and forth across the bridge, eyes frantically scanning the water. “He’s fine. He can’t die.” Liam mutters, a mantra. But, he can’t help think back to the night before when he’d hit Harry with the car and how very long it had taken him to recover from injuries so serious. Surly falling into the churning, frigid autumn waters would have similar effects? Liam grips the bridge railing hard enough to hurt and it takes everything he has not to pitch himself into the river after Harry.

A strike of lightening illuminates the water and Liam manages to spot Harry breaking the surface, shaking his head and bearing his right hand, still clutching his sword, above the surface. He’s swimming determinedly, albeit one handed, towards a rusted garbage barge.

Another flash of lightening burns across the sky, and Liam sees August’s unmistakable hulking silhouette climbing a ladder up the barge’s side. “Please, please, please.” Liam’s glance flicks from August to Harry and he’s as close to praying as he’s ever been before in his life. He’s not sure what exactly it is he’s pleading for; for Harry to make it to the barge, or for Harry to beat August.

For Harry to be safe.

Liam raises the pistol and tries to site August, but he doesn’t know if he can fire it with any accuracy at this distance. And, his hands are shaking so badly he’s terrified he’ll miss August entirely and end up hurting Harry, who has reached the ladder and is climbing up after his enemy. The fear Liam’s managed to keep at bay is spreading icy wings low in his guts now all he can do is watch Harry’s battle unfold while he stands helplessly by. Panic glues Liam to the spot, but as he’s staring at the action unfolding and wincing with every blow that August lands, Liam realises something: the barge is moving.

The rusted out garbage barge is moving steadily towards the bridge, and Liam. When it’s beneath the bridge, Liam jumps. 

Liam lands hard at the stern of the barge, as far away from Harry and August as he can be and still be on the ship. He falls hard and his breath is knocked from him. He rolls a little, struggling to stand in the now driving rain and wicked wind. It’s all he can do to not cry out in pain as he tries to put weight on his right foot. He’s sure that his hard, awkward landing has at the very least sprained his ankle, probably worse. He whimpers under his breath, grateful that the storm steals his voice, tossing it back to shore and that he’s managed to keep the gun Harry had given him. 

He inches his way along the length of the barge, limping against the pain snaking its way up his leg and the fear threatening to swim through his veins. Over the din of thunder and wind, Liam catches snatches of steel against steel. He follows the sound, clinging to the deck as he slips in the puddling rain. As he crawls his way to the foredeck, a sudden, sharp noise pierces the night. Liam has never heard anything like it before, but he recognizes it immediately.

Harry is screaming.

Pain and fear forgotten, Liam abandons limping along and runs towards the most horrible sound he’s ever heard. He runs the length of the barge, reaching the foredeck and stopping cold. Breathing heavily through his mouth, it’s all Liam can do to not spill his guts. Of course August is an old barn cat with a mouse. Of course he wouldn’t take Harry’s head cleanly, or fairly. Of course he would torture him first, laughing while he does so. 

Harry’s blood mixes with the litter and rainwater on the deck. August is looming over him, sword tip tracing down the fair skin of Harry’s arms, exposed to the elements where his jumper’s been cut to ribbons. Harry is shivering and shaking, and steadily going horse from the violence of his screams. Liam can see the deep cuts that mar his chest and belly, legs and hips, and he blinks at the sight of them healing, only to be rent open again with the tip of August’s sword. Harry is lying prone on the deck, his head lolling and eyes rolling back in his skull. 

Unnatural blue light swirls in the sky and lighting strikes the water all around them. August raises his sword high over his head, his laughter louder than the thunder from the low hanging clouds. The sword is a lightning rod and Liam knows, with absolute conviction that if he allows August to land his blow, Harry will die. Without thought or hesitation, Liam raises his gun and squeezes the trigger, emptying all remaining six rounds into August’s head and neck. 

He shakes and twitches with the impact of each bullet, like a penitent under the weight of the holy spirit. Liam launches himself at August, hitting him with his full weight and knocking him backwards. They fall together into the thick chains and ropes that winch the barge to the tugboat in front of it, and haul skips onto the deck. One of the chains ends in a hook as thick as Liam’s thigh. That hook pierces August’s back , the force of his fall pushing the hook out through his rib cage. The more he struggles the more caught he becomes, like a fish on a line. Liam squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to so much as glance at the horrible sight. It takes everything he has to not cover his ears with his hands, blocking out August’s horrible, gurgling laughter.

Liam spins around and drops to his knees, gently cradling Harry in his arms. “C’mon Hazza. On your feet now, man.” Harry’s blinking and covered in blood, his curls matted to his head with rainwater and gore. Liam lets out a breath for the first time in ages, when he sees that all the horrible wounds August had so gleefully inflicted have been erased from Harry’s skin. 

Harry gets awkwardly to his feet, lurching and shuffling even with Liam’s help. Liam reaches to the metal deck floor and curls his fingers around the hilt of Harry’s sword. 

“I can’t do this for you.”He hefts it up and offers it to Harry, who takes it with a small, grim smile.

Slumped and gasping, Harry leans his face a hairsbreadth from August. “You,” he says in a low growl, pressing the tip of his blade painfully alongside the gaping wound the winch hook has made in August’s chest, “You, for two thousand years, would have me kneel at my own grave.” Chest heaving and Liam’s hand at the dip of his spine, Harry uses both hands to raise his sword over his head. “But no more,” Harry hitches his arm to his face, wiping off blood and water on the inside of his elbow, “This ends tonight. You will not bury me.” His voice is loud, but rusty as an old gate. He uses all the strength he has to lower his sword in one smooth motion, connecting neatly with August’s neck.

The storm clouds are so low Liam feels like he could reach up and touch them. The rain intensifies and the wind whips around them. The smell of smoke and ashes fill the air as electric blue tendrils of lightening and current swirl around Harry shaking him back and forth like a terrier’s chew toy. Liam feels the jolt of the lightening zing up his arm and tastes the bitterness of the ashes, all that remains of August, on his lips. 

There's a low level hum beneath the ringing of Liam’s ears that builds to roar. The scent of burning metal and sulfur fills the air a moment before the barge explodes.

\+ + +

Liam comes to on the dirty riverbank, curled around crumbling concrete and litter. He tries to sit up, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears, his side screams in a pain that burns brighter than the flames licking across the water. As his hearing clears, the sound of sirens wailing in the distance fills the air. “Harry,” Liam struggles to his knees and fumbles down the embankment. 

Harry is lying flat on his back, his clothes in rags. He’s got a deep gash across his forehead and his arm is tilted up at an unnatural angle. His eyes are closed and he’s not moving. Not breathing. 

“Oh no. Oh nononono. Harry,” Liam crawls up beside him, curling protectively around Harry’s prone form. “Harry,” Liam shakes his shoulder “Harry! Harry please, oh god, please just be all right.” Liam sobs as he continues to shake him.

“Ow,” Harry’s nose wrinkles and his eyelids flicker. He opens one blood shot eye and manages to tilt the corners of his lips up in an attempt at a smile. “Some third date, Li,” he whispers

Liam laughs in relief, “Yeah, yeah buddy.” He pitches forward, face buried in Harry’s neck and everything goes black.

\+ + + +

Harry’s wealth makes it easy for the police to believe the events in West London are the result of a botched kidnapping attempt. If Niall suspects that Liam isn’t telling the whole truth, and if Liam can't quite meet his eyes when he's telling his version of events, he doesn’t ask any questions. The pair of them are lucky to have escaped with nothing more than scrapes, bruises, a sprained ankle for Liam, and a broken wrist for Harry. They give their police interviews at hospital and are kept overnight to ensure that there are no more serious injuries lurking. 

Liam wants to get away from the city, away from the questions and curiosity of his friends. As soon as they’re given the all clear, Harry suggests his property in the Cheshire countryside where he’s had a bungalow built. Nick happily agrees to cover Liam’s shifts at the bookshop, and they stop by Harry's and then Liam’s so he can pack a case and collect Brit.

They haven’t talked about what happened, not really. Liam is more than willing to forget it all. He’s just glad Harry is here with him, sound asleep and leaning against the window as they reach the end of their three hour drive up to Holmes Chapel. Liam curves his palm against the scabbing cut that slashes across Harry’s cheek, mottled with dark blue bruising. He clucks and fusses at Harry, and Harry lets him, rewarding him with slow sleepy kisses and smiles.

When they reach the bungalow, Liam tucks Harry up on the sofa, thick duvet wound around him and pillows under his head and injured arm. “I’ll put on the tea, love. Won’t be a tick.” Liam presses a kiss to the riot of Harry’s curls and heads to the kitchen, where he pokes through the cupboards until he finds tea bags and a packet of biscuits that looks like it’s still edible. 

Balancing the tea mugs and the biscuits in one hand, Liam hobbles to the lounge room, stopping in the door way. Harry’s fallen asleep, Brit’s fat little puppy body curled up in his arms. Liam is so overwhelmed by feelings he has to swallow hard and close his eyes. Breathing deeply in and out a few times, he feels like he’s barely escaped having a full out wobbly. He’s sure that’s coming soon enough, but right now he just wants to take care of Harry.

Liam tries to set the tea down on the coffee table as quietly as possible, but as soon as he’s done so, Brit’s tail starts thumping and Harry opens his eyes. “Mmm, come have a cuddle,” He stretches and the duvet slips down to his waist. Brit wriggles away, sniffing at the biscuits as Harry holds his arms out to Liam, flipping back the duvet. Eager, Liam flops down onto the sofa, careful of his foot and Harry’s arm while still hugging Harry in close to him. Harry makes a happy noise and nuzzles sleepily at Liam’s neck as Liam cards his fingers through Harry’s curls, scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Haz?” Liam asks, disturbing the quiet of the sunny room.

“Hmm?” Harry mumbles, burying his face further into Liam’s neck.

Liam strokes his hand up and down Harry’s back underneath the thick wool of his jumper. “How do…how do you…feel?”

Smiling wide, Harry leans the jut of his chin into the muscle of Liam’s shoulder. “Good, mostly. Tired, Sore. Safe.” He brushes his lips across Liam’s jaw.

Turning to run his thumb along the tiny cuts that freckle Harry’s nose, Liam is thoughtfully quiet for a moment. “I mean, like, the _Prize_ or what have you—was it, was it worth it?”

Harry stretches and winds himself further around Liam. “Yeah, yeah. Definitely. I don’t know if I can explain it, though. But I feel…different. Like in my bones.” He snickers as Liam traces the edge of the cast on his arm. “I feel…whole.”

“I’m glad,” Liam says softly.

“But I’m ever so tired!” Harry yawns huge and gaping, and then laughs. 

“Well, you are quite seniorly.” Liam nods sagely. “Never dated an OAP before. And you're well beyond, aren't you? You look quite good for your age, actually. Well, maybe excepting the grey hair.”

“Grey hair!” Harry yelps, jerking at his a fistful of his curls, and going almost cross eyed examining it closely. 

Liam is horrible at maintaining a poker face when he thinks he’s made a funny joke. Harry elbows him when he sees Liam’s eyes crinkle up and feels him shake with laughter. “Heeeeyyy.”

“Only joking, Hazza.” Liam kisses him, careful of the split in Harry’s bottom lip, then traces his mouth across the long column of Harry’s throat. Laughing, Liam bites at the pale skin, sucking hard at the mark he’s made.

“Ow!” Harry tilts his head away, and covers the spot Liam has been worrying at with his good hand. “What’d y’do that for?”

Liam flits Harry’s hand away, clasping it in his and smiling a terribly smug smile. “Because I can,” he says, brushing his lips across the deep, mouth shaped bruise he’s made.

“Weirdo,” Harry mutters, shaking his head and laughing. But he settles the duvet back around them and leans heavily against Liam, closing his eyes. 

“Says the boy who’s run round the grotty parts of London with a sword chasing bad guys,” Liam quips. Harry laughs and his breathing evens out. “I’m sorry the sword your father made you is somewhere on the bottom of the river,” he says sincerely.

Harry just squeezes Liam’s hand. “S’alright. Where it belongs now, most likely—with all the other relics. Don’t suppose I have a need for it anymore.”

Clearing his throat, Liam says, “I've been thinking, perhaps you you could describe it to Zayn. Get him to draw it out, like. Then maybe get a tattoo or something.” 

“That’s a brilliant idea,” Harry opens his eyes, smiling at Liam.

“Well, I’m glad you like it,” Liam says, beaming. “Thought it could be a good way to make a new start.”

“Perfect, actually.” Harry agrees. Liam smiles as he tilts their heads together, “I can’t wait for my new start, with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> req•ui•es•cat (r k w - s k t , -kät )  
> n.  
> A prayer for the repose of the souls of the dead.  
> ________________________________________  
> [Latin, third person sing. present subjunctive of requi scere, to rest : re-, re- + qui scere, to rest; see kwei - in Indo-European roots.]
> 
> Very very loosely inspired by the 1986 film Highlander.


End file.
